


Loyal-est Patriot

by tigerlilycorinne



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Alternate Universe - Historical, British Spy Baz (sort of), Carry On Through The Ages, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Pining Simon Snow but he doesn't know it yet, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Revolutionary Simon, Roommates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 83,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27395125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerlilycorinne/pseuds/tigerlilycorinne
Summary: Simon only wants to do his part in freeing the colonies– and Boston– from the British, but everything turns upside down when a British soldier is quartered in his house.Baz wants to... He wants to go back home to England. (Doesn’t he?) (When he meets Simon, he almost doesn't. (Almost.))His father wants valuable information out of Simon, and if Baz succeeds, he'll be able to get out of loud, dirty Boston, full of stupid Revolutionaries.And once he does, his father will have Simon hung for treason against the Crown.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 90
Kudos: 60
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	1. I'll never forget the first time I saw your face

**Author's Note:**

> This fic got so out of hand, it's ridiculous.
> 
> Thank you FangirlOfLetters for sticking with me through this mess of a fic... I hope you're ready for more.
> 
> And thank you BazzyBelle for organizing this awesome fest! 
> 
> I didn't exactly stay historically accurate. Please forgive me.

“A skirmish, Simon. Lexington was a skirmish.”

I shake my head at Penny, pulling her down the marketplace cobblestone street. The Salisburys sent us off in search of wheat flour, and to restock on tea. Locally produced tea, _Boston_ tea. We have already purchased some with the rattling coins they sent us off with. We’ve yet to get cheese, but the change is ours, and I can smell the meat pie street stall a couple stalls down from here.

“We’ll take one, ma’am,” I tell Ebeneza, the woman at the goat cheese stall Penny won’t stop inspecting. We love her cheese, and we’ve nearly run out, so now is as good a time as any to get more. 

She sniffs and wipes at her eyes– she’s always a little sad– but she pushes back her blonde hair and gives me a watery smile and a wheel of cheese for the coins I hand her. She takes them in her big hands and drops them into her apron with a loud clinking. It bulges more in the pockets than it does at her chest– she’s had a very good day for business, although to be fair, her apron lies almost flat in the front.

She gives it to us for cheap because she’s good friends with Mrs. Salisbury, but even so, we won’t have any change left after the meat pie for me to add to my savings.

“Now, Concord, that was a proper fight,” I say, as we return to our path towards the meat pie stall.

Penny shifts the sachets of tea to her other arm so she doesn’t drop them. Good thing, too, because a coach clatters loudly down the street, not slowing even as it parades through the market, and I knock her in my haste to get out of it’s way. 

It’s a right fine coach; the horses’ shoes sound new and their powerful flanks shine, the coach itself is painted down a sleek black. The man in the back is dressed like he’s from a noble family– his clothes are pressed and clean, black coat over a ruffled white shirt. I’m fixated on his jet black hair and his impossibly dark eyes– or maybe it’s just the coach’s shadow. There’s something about his face–

“Simon, are you listening to me?” Penny turns once she realizes I’m no longer with her– I stopped walking to stare. I flush, well aware I must look a pudding-headed fellow, standing stock still in a busy market street, staring at a gentleman’s coach like it’s the first time I’ve seen one.

“Pardon, Miss Penelope,” I say, which earns me a light slap on the shoulder. I resume my quest for meat pies, and she follows, repeating what she’d said while I stared at the pretty fellow in the carriage.

“I trust you heard how it ended.” 

I only heard more Redcoats would be flooding Boston’s streets soon, and that Concord sounds like a riot in both senses of the word. I wish I’d seen it– and maybe done a bit more than just see. Mr. Salisbury, for one, would like me to have fought.

Just yesterday Mr. Salisbury pulled me aside. “How are the men? Have you been practicing with your shot?”

I told him I had, and that General Thomas thought the men were doing alright, all things considered, though of course we weren’t exactly ready and set. 

He had brightened at the mention of my speaking to the general. “Did you tell him I sent you?” I’ve been going for months, but Mr. Salisbury likes me to say I’ve been sent by him every time. I think he’d like to be friends with Thomas– as a General, John Thomas is a powerful man.

“If only you’d been at Lexington,” Mr. Salisbury had said wistfully. Eight people had died at Lexington. “You’re made to be a fighter.” 

He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then Mrs. Salisbury came in, carrying new fabrics, and he’d quickly busied himself elsewhere– we know better than to bring up the idea of me fighting around her. 

Penny glances at me, but I haven’t got anything to say, so she continues, “Redcoats were saved by some Earl Percy, Lieutenant-General.”

I scowl, but at that moment the man from the market stall hands me the meat pie, and I make sure to smile. He likes me because I always buy from him, and I don’t want him thinking I’m mad at him– I like him too. He quietly refuses to sell to Loyalists, and he seems to look forward to me buying his pies as much as I look forward to buying them.

“Well, we still won,” I reason, “And that means something. We made a _point!_ I wish I was there.”

“I know you do.” Penny sighs and tugs me down the street so I don’t get in the way of throngs of people buying their goods as I eat my pie.

We’re going down the street back the way we came, towards home, where the Salisburys are. It’s stupid to think about, but this is the way the fancy coach went and if it stopped, we’d run into it. 

“I can’t believe they’re sending in more troops.” I’m not sure what they hope will happen; it isn’t as if we’ll go back to loving Britain. Are they going to saddle themselves with a colony on the edge of revolution indefinitely? Do they think we’ll settle down and comply if they use enough force? 

As far as I’m concerned, the Patriots’ cause is only dead when no one else will fight for it, and I _know_ people will fight for it. People are fighting for it right now. Penny says she’s surprised shots were fired and this has become an actual _military_ conflict, but I say it’s been brewing for years. It’s about time.

“I know you are,” Penny says again. “And I think that’s a bit blind of you. They’re going to try to quell the rebellion, and Boston’s the center of the revolutionary leadership. They’ll need as many troops here as they can get.”

I hear they’re making a lot of arrests. Those who aren’t hung end up in jail, and the jails are so dirty and cramped, they die quickly anyway– they seem to think that the threat will put people off. _No it won’t_. If anything, it’s making people more mad– even some Loyalists get more neutral after seeing someone get hung or hauled off to jail.

I look at her. The darkness of her skin is emphasised by the bright daylight. I don’t think spring is a good term for this weather; late April may as well be late winter, if you ask the sun. There’s something about the cold that makes daylight seem stronger. 

“They’re not going to win,” I insist, “They’re just putting off the inevitable.”

“They’re not just going to _give up_ , Simon,” Penny laughs, and I smile too. It’s kind of a pointless conversation. I know they’re not going to just give up– that’s not how war or countries work.

“I know.” I try to imagine Britain throwing its hands up in surrender as if to say, _you’re just too much trouble._ I laugh. “I wish they would.”

Penny hums in her throat. I can hear it a little over the rushing sounds of people talking, since the street the Salisburys live on is much quieter than the market place. Mostly I just know she’s humming because of the face she’s making, the sceptical one I like a lot less than the fond one.

“Do you?” Her eyes bug out. “Simon, watch your step!” I narrowly avoid trodding in a pile of horse shit. 

“I do!” I say when I’ve safely avoided the droppings, “I want to win!” _I do_. I can see the final battle: the Redcoats dropping their weapons, a commanding officer frantically waving a white handkerchief. Mr Salisbury’s proud smile, General Thomas’s slap on the back.

We reach the Salisburys’ doorstep, and Penny looks at me. “I think you want _you_ to win,” she says, not unkindly.

Yeah. I guess I do.

**BAZ**

Is it strange that I can’t get that street boy out of my head? 

Father’s servants welcome me in, scurrying to take care of the horses once they’ve released them from their tethers to the coach. 

He wasn’t anything special– an errand boy, perhaps. A very fit errand boy with tousled curls who can carry a large bag of flour like he doesn’t even realize he’s still holding it.

He stared as if he’d never seen a coach before, although surely he has. An unpleasant twist in my stomach tells me he might have been studying the shade of my skin, which is unlikely, but I can’t think what else he might have been staring at me for. Though I’m so light I pass through society with only a couple of whispers, I’m no fool. I know I’m not as fair as the boy in the street, and even he had a rich skin tone of someone who spends many an hour in the sun.

He was heart-stoppingly pretty– a riot of bright curls, shining eyes. The short sleeves of a working boy that should be off-putting but instead only draw attention to his arms.

I sigh, thanking those who come to take my travelling coat and bring me water on a tray as I retire to my room and lie down in my neatly made bed. My father will want to speak to me soon– that’s why I’m here, after all.

He wants me to do something, I’m sure. He’s never cared to speak much to me unless he wants something of me. I doubt he plans to start now, now that he’s gotten even more prestige after that rescue operation– “intervention,” he likes to call it– he pulled. 

Sure enough, when supper hour arrives, he’s seated at the head of the table as servants– and a slave or two– serve up a multi-course feast. If I were a hero, I’d free the slaves. Tell them to run. Since I’m nothing close to a hero, I make sure they’re not hurt, bring them extra food and water and blankets on the colder nights. Before we came to the American Colonies, Dev would call me soft-hearted, joking about what my father would say if he found out. He didn’t find out, and he still hasn’t.

Aunt Fiona is somewhere here in the colonies, or so I hear. I used to think I’d like to be like her– she ditched the family completely and they say she got a huge estate somewhere in the colonies and never wrote back. I wonder if I’ll run into her. I doubt it. What’s she doing, now that the colonies are in greater uproar than ever? Is she a Loyalist? I’m not sure– she always loved the money and extravagance that our Crown-given class provided for us, but she also never missed a chance to be a rebel.

If we were back in England, Dev would be here, Niall too. Instead the long wooden table stretches out between my father and me, chunky wooden chairs on either side of us empty and the dishes never-the-less full enough for five. My elder brothers already live on their own, my eldest sister was married off, and my younger siblings are back on the estate in England. It’s just us two.

“Father,” I say and he hushes me so we can say grace. I’m not so sure on the existence of God, seeing as the fit boy still won’t leave my head, but I’m wise enough to bow my head and keep my mouth shut. “Father,” I say again when that’s over, “What do you want me here for?” 

I arrived only two nights ago, and have stayed in two rather inhospitable inns on my way here– Boston isn’t exactly fond of Loyalists, let alone nobility– and I’m eager to find out the purpose behind such suffering. For all the British quartering here, Boston remains painfully rebellious.

“Tyrannus, I trust you’ve heard of the events of the Concord battles?” Even now, he looks even more self-satisfied than I imagined him to be when I read his letters. At my nod, he gives another little self-satisfied smirk and waves for more water. “I would like to position you in a household.” 

I blink. “I’m not staying here, then? Are you sending me off to Aunt Fiona’s?”

“I’m not in correspondence with your aunt,” Father says confidently, but to some spot above my head. “I want you in a rebel’s household.”

 _Excuse me?_ “What, like a spy? I’m not one of your troops to order around.” Did he bring me all the way from England to stick me in someone else’s house? I already miss the England estate.

“Soldiers are dumb,” my father tells me. The statement is very objective. “They make very bad spies, and I believe we’ve managed to put a finger on a young man who has a remarkable amount of trust from the rebellious leaders.” His voice goes bitter in his last two words, “He’s the commonest you can get, a working boy for a family called the Salisburys, who seem to run a bit of a crowded household.”

This coming from a man with nine children, a few of who are the children of slaves. My mother was a slave. After he forced her to stay until she had me, she set the estate ablaze and ran with me in her arms, or so the slaves still working there have told me. She made it nearly to the road.

He hands me a stack of papers, thin, with information about this man. A typewritten segment: Simon. Boston, other pieces of official information (or in this case: non-information. _Date of birth: unknown, parentage: unknown, last name: unknown_ ). Below it, a handwritten description– not my father’s, so probably whoever tipped him off for this information in the first place. That part reads out physical descriptions, speculation on who he corresponds with, how and when.

“If you have this much information on him, why not hang him right now?” 

This is a sore spot for my father; he frowns. “Of course we could, knowing what we do, but he’s more useful alive than dead if you can manage to get any information from him. We’ll hang him when we’ve gotten all the information from his station we can, so don’t get too attached. You’ve always been fond of poor folk.” 

My stomach twists. The papers say his birthday is unknown, but he’s seventeen. _Seventeen._

Father’s mouth twists. “And when we’re satisfied with the information you’ve given us, you can go right back home.” He knows me too well. He can read it in my eyes, how much I dislike this wild, loud city full of political rabble and not a moment of peace in sight.

I wonder if the cold laughter in his eyes is just a trick of the evening light, and whether this is his way of tormenting me. I’ve always wanted to live apart from him, but never under the condition of working for him. Once or twice, when I was younger, I even daydreamed about running away to live with Fiona, but now that I’m here, I’m glad I never tried.

“What do you want me to look for?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Mail, any rebellious correspondence, anything you hear, and any indications of location. It has come to our notice–” his chest puffs out at ‘ _our_ ’ “–that the weapons we found in Concord were not all of their original ammunition collection. We can expect plans from the rebels to dismantle our hold of Boston, as we can already see they are attempting through besieging the town. I am under the impression that this is the sort of information that passes through this young man’s hands. I’ve got a man in the Boston recruits, and he tells me the generals are inexplicably fond of him.”

“You can’t ask your man in the Boston recruits?” I want to go back to England. I already miss the rolling green fields, the quiet, expansive estate, the rose garden where I would sit and read my books. Who’ll teach me violin if Miss Daphne is across the ocean?

“They don’t tell most of their men much,” Father says, not looking at me, and I wait. He scowls. “And he was found out and hanged last week.”

Ah. Is this a play for him to get rid of his least favourite son? 

I rub my eyes with the backs of my palms, the third course is brought in, the slave stumbles and barely rights herself and my father scowls again. 

Suddenly I want to get out of this house, whatever it takes. I’ll give him whatever he wants; all I want is to go back. To get away from him, across the sea where he can’t loom over me anymore.

I open my mouth and Father’s mouth turns up. “When do I start?”

“You start tomorrow. I expect you to keep in touch. A letter a week will suffice, but if you find anything it will be reported _immediately_ , and I will have you come speak to me in person anytime I wish to hear your progress from your own mouth.” _To make sure you’re not lying to me_ is unspoken, but there nonetheless.

I fight to keep my face neutral. Tomorrow might as well be right now.

“And Basilton?” He calls me Basilton to wound me; it was my mother’s name for me. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the little soldier is your age. Try not to get too attracted.”

I shove away from the table and leave for my room, those words burning in my ears.


	2. I know him, that can't be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Baz shows up, Simon knows _instantly_ he’s not a lowly British soldier– he _saw_ this ponce in a coach fit to pull the king– but nobody seems to pay his warnings any mind, least of all Baz, who seems to find these accusations rather amusing.

**SIMON**

Evening post tells us there will be a British soldier quartered in our house, and that he’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon. 

Mr. Salisbury is almost as upset as I am, but he’s twice as loud about it. He talks about liberty and freedom over supper, which Penny and I eat with the Salisburys even though we technically work under them. 

I’m just as upset, but I’m not as good with my words about it, so I just listen to him talk. I want respect, I guess. A future where the sky is the limit, and right now England hovers over us like a ceiling. Treat us like we matter, that’s all.

Mrs. Salisbury is quiet during supper, listening, to her husband. Sometimes I feel as if she follows him about more than she follows herself. I wonder what she thinks? 

Sometimes he gets really red in the face, and reckon anyone who saw him would assume he’s drunk on crazy. Now is one of those times. He just cares a lot, is all. 

Penny laughs at all of us. “It’s just some lobster,” she tells us, “What can he do? There are four of us, and Mr. Salisbury can fight better than him, I reckon.” She doesn’t say anything about me. She can’t, not when Mrs. Salisbury is here. “In any case, we haven’t done anything incriminating, _have we?_ ”

Her eyes challenge Mr. Salisbury, who is never as careful as he should be. His face gets even redder; he’ll have to hide his papers. He doesn’t fight as much as he does talk, but he has everything from Patriot correspondence to underground Patriot newspapers that he never bothers to make a secret of.

I wince, and I’m not even the one pinned under Penny’s stare. She might officially work for him, but she never acts like it. I’ll have to hide my letters, too. Especially the ones I get from General Thomas, the intelligence he sends me straight from Washington. Sometimes I think he likes to bounce his ideas off me, though I don’t usually have anything much to say about them. Usually, my replies consist of something along the lines of, “Great plan, am I fighting? Can I fight?” The answer is usually _no_ , _it’s too far_.

Mr. Salisbury huffs at her and digs into his supper with renewed vigor. “Probably just a fat old ponce,” he mutters.

I don’t point out that British soldiers are rarely fat or old or poncey– Britain does have the most powerful army in the world, and it gives me a twist in my stomach to think about.

The next afternoon we get a knock on the door– sharp raps in sets of three, and when I open the door I see the bloke is not old or fat, but he _is_ very poncey.

It takes me a minute because I’m squinting into the sunlight from the open door, but when I manage to focus on the bloke rather than his silhouette, I’m convinced it isn’t afternoon after all. I’m pretty sure it’s night, I’m dreaming. I have to be. 

It’s the man– boy?– from the coach. I don’t know, he seems about my age– seventeen years or so, not really a boy anymore or a man just yet. 

He’s different in the light: the first thing I notice is that his eyes are a sharp gray, not deep and dark the way they looked in the shadow of the coach. But I’m sure this is him. 

Distantly, I hear Mrs. Salisbury bustling around the house, no doubt re-checking that everything is hidden and that Penny has made my bed. Yes, that’s right, this ponce with pretty eyes and the darkest hair I’ve ever seen has taken my bed. I’m to sleep on a cot in the same room as this Redcoat, who is most certainly not actually a British soldier. 

His eyes widen upon seeing me. I’m not sure why. We haven’t met face to face before– nowhere where _he’d_ notice _me_ , or I'd have remembered it for sure. He has a striking face, with sharp cheekbones and slanted eyebrows, and when I look at his lips I have to swallow and look up.

“Basilton Pitch,” he introduces himself and holds out his hand. For a moment, I think it’s to shake, and I’m torn between decency and disgust: there’s a _Redcoat_ in our _house_. But then I realize it’s a quartering notice, the mandate printed small beneath his name. I can’t read fast enough to actually parse out the mandate, but I recognize it enough to know it’s the quartering orders. His signature is both flashy and elegant, looping, and sharp. 

“Pleasure,” he says, which he obviously doesn’t mean, and the corner of his mouth twists up like he _knows_ I’ve just realized I haven’t uttered a word. He bows his head at me a moment, like he's mocking my lack of courtesy, and steps in without invitation.

“Simon,” I say to his back, and realize I’ve already stuck my hand out. I let it drop. So much for manners. His hair falls around his face, oddly long for a military man, and he can’t be a British soldier, can he? Sometimes I’ve seen the Redcoats about with their hair braided so as not to get in their faces– I imagine Basilton with braids and shake the image out of my head– but regardless, I can’t think what a common soldier would be doing in a coach like the one I _know_ I saw him in.

I bring it up at supper, after mulling over it all afternoon. We kept meeting eyes, and I couldn’t tell if he was catching me staring or if I was catching him staring. It’s infuriating smirk suggested it was the first. 

“I saw you in a coach.”

Basilton wrinkles his nose in my direction. I don’t think he expected to eat with the working boy and girl. Too bad. The Salisburys didn’t take me in just because it was convenient for them. At least, not totally. I’m convinced Mrs. Salisbury loves me like a son. Sometimes she calls me her rosebud boy.

I press on: “What was a normal soldier like you doing in that fancy thing?” He isn’t even built like a soldier: he’s thin and the lines of his features are sharp but oddly delicate looking. Which is neither here nor there, but I’m just saying, he doesn’t _look_ like a _soldier_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says airily. 

Even Mr. Salisbury seems to buy this. “Maybe you saw someone else,” he suggests in an infuriating calming voice.

Basilton’s mouth twists in satisfaction, and I stab one of my potatoes. Mrs. Salisbury looks up, and I lower my shoulder in an apologetic half-shrug. (She hates it when I take it out on the china.)

“I know it was you,” I insist, “I _saw_ him. He was dressed up all fancy-like.”

“Me?” I hate the feigned confusion on Basilton’s face. It’s so… well done. “Couldn’t have been me, I promise you that. Why, yesterday afternoon, I was practicing shooting with the rest of Boston’s troops.”

I stare at him. “Boston’s divided into more than just one regiment. We’re a big city.”

He takes this infuriatingly calmly. “Boston’s regiment for this area,” he says smoothly, and I look around at the table. 

No one else seems concerned.

Basilton notices me looking and offers me a self-satisfied smile. As if saying _haha, looks like you’re on your own._

“In any case,” he continues, “I beg we return to our initial question of why a normal soldier like me would be carted around on a coach– I do believe that’s what you inquired of me?” He even talks like someone who belongs to some rich family.

I scowl at him and he smiles wider. “You didn’t answer it.”

At this point, Mr. Salisbury loses interest and allows Mrs. Salisbury to rope him into a conversation about upcoming meals. Penny tunes in to find out what food she’ll need to purchase; I can tell from the way she tilts her head that she isn’t listening to me anymore. Are none of them the slightest bit concerned? 

Even if it doesn’t seem like a harmful lie, if Basilton’s lying, there’s a _reason_ behind it.

“I wasn’t on the coach, so I deeply regret that I cannot answer that question for you.” Basilton tilts his head at me, something sharp in his eyes. Probably hatred. Not to worry, the feeling is mutual. “Can we address the implications of the question? Do you really think I’m so normal?” He actually looks at me coyly. No joke. Like a fucking loose woman, except instead of desire, there is mockery in his eyes.

I forget my manners in an instant. “You’re a whole lot worse than normal.” 

His eyes flash, but I turn away, feeling both stupid and triumphant. We’re already enemies; he’s a Redcoat. But he doesn’t know we’re a Patriot family so to him, we probably weren’t enemies until now. Whoops. Too bad.

After supper, there’s only an hour or two of sunlight, and working by candlelight is never fun. I copy out simple lists of tasks I have to complete tomorrow, and don’t write out my normal visit to the post stop– not the actual post, but the square I go to to get news from the Patriot messengers. 

While Penny clears and I finish moving about the last of the furniture we have to shift in order to accommodate Basilton, said prat lounges in a chair, watching me scuttle about with an amused smirk on his face. Penny will have to clean the mud he tracked in when he first arrived once she finishes with my room, and I hate him even more. I wonder how long he has to stay.

It feels if Basilton is always watching me, silently gloating over our scramble to fit him into our house and our lives. 

Over the next few days, he finishes the milk, and I have to fetch more because Penny needs some to cook; he catches me looking at his bootprints and looks me dead in the eye when he steps in, his boots positively _caked_ with mud; he sighs loudly as he lies down in my(!) bed and smirks down at me as I squirm in my cot; and in a grand show of his absolute evilness, he “accidentally” misplaces the handkerchief he catches me fingering at night– a silk one from Agatha that she gave me as a token of her affection (like the fucking fairytales, she’s so sweet) last time we saw each other. She had to leave– her family moved off to Georgia when states started taking sides.

“Penny,” I hiss when the Salisburys are out and she’s cleaning the floor (again). “Basilton’s out.”

“Simon,” she groans, “I don’t want to hear about him again. Please. Mrs. Salisbury got a new gingerbread recipe, did you see it?”

“He said he was going to do something for the Redcoats.”

“A Redcoat thing.” 

The cloth curtains flutter over the window. Penny says they’re horrendously yellow, but Mrs. Salisbury likes the calico, and I do too. Yesterday, Basilton informed me that he deemed them the worst part of the house (besides me). Something about the dark wood and the cheery yellow. Penny huffs and ties up the fabric, the muggy May breeze now teasing her hair.

“I don’t know.”

I’m supposed to be copying out some writings for Mr. Salisbury. He writes a lot of rousing speech things, kind of like the way he talks, and I have to decipher his scribbles and translate them to a readable font for the printer. It’s a good thing I understand his handwriting because I don’t understand half the words he uses.

I abandon this now to swipe a rag and join Penny on the floor. She tuts at me but doesn’t make me go back to my work. My hand was cramping anyway. “Orientation?” I try to recall. “Training? It doesn’t matter– that’s obviously not what he’s actually doing.”

Penny slaps my hand with her wet rag, which isn’t exactly clean. “It doesn’t matter, he’s obviously not _doing_ anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

Penny’s long hair, which she tied sloppily up earlier, spills from its bun at the nape of her neck. The ends are purple, and by the ends, I mean nearly a foot up from the tips, the result of some fabric dyeing mishap. She didn’t want to cut it, and now Penny just ties it up or tucks it under a bonnet when we go out.

“Would you like to help me make the gingerbread?”

“You’re not listening to me.” I dunk the rag in the water bucket and swish it around, then return to scrubbing the floor. Basilton’s boots have a little heel on them, and it gives me some satisfaction to know he’s probably only got about three inches on me, not four. 

“I am listening to you. You saw him in a coach, and he’s probably lying about being a Redcoat.”

“ _Yes_. You’re not worried?”

“He had the quartering papers. It’s not like he’s mooching off of us, especially if he lives in a horse and coach lifestyle.”

If he lives a horse and coach lifestyle, he’s probably one of the rich Loyalists. Lots of the most powerful Loyalists are nobility that like the crown very much, since they were granted nobility by the crown and all. He sure looks up to his neck in gold, by the way he holds himself.

“He’s up to something.” Bugger. He _has_ to be. I asked him where he was off to earlier today, when he was pulling on his coat, and he _smirked_ at me.

Penny hums. “He can’t touch us, Simon.” She snaps her fingers at me. “Pass the bucket.”

He _can_ touch us, I think. If he’s one of those Loyalists, he probably has the power and voice to get us hanged.

When I’ve finished off the copying, my hand aches. I decide not to bring them out to the printer just yet, though.

“I’ll go when Basilton gets back,” I tell Penny.

She wrinkles her nose at me. She’s got a dusting of flour on her cheeks. Is that the wheat flour we bought a week and a half ago? I don’t know the first thing about cooking; I just do what Penny tells me. You can’t go wrong listening to Penny. “Isn’t that counter-productive?”

“No.” I watch her roll the gingerbread flat. I have some idea how much butter goes into the gingerbread, but it still stuns me every time. That’s why gingerbread is so good, I reckon. “You’re going to make sure he doesn’t follow me. Keep him at home.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Dunno, you’re smart,” I say, hoping to butter her up. I need to stop thinking about butter. Penny’s fingers shine with grease. “You’ll figure something out.”

“You want to wait until he gets home to see the printer so he doesn’t follow you? Can’t you just go now?” I can tell she’s getting tired of this conversation by the way she shoves the slider harshly under the squares to move them onto the pan, like doing it efficiently will make our conversation more productive too.

“Yes.” 

She sighs. 

“I don’t know where he is right now– for all I know he could be about town and see me, and follow me to the printers’ to see if he can get dirt on me. He would!” Penny looks like she’s about to protest, so I interrupt her again: “You don’t actually believe he’s off training with the Redcoats, do you? Because he’s not.”

“I know he’s lying,” Penny says, taking on the air of being very put-upon. “I just don’t think he’s a threat.”

“If he sees what Mr. Salisbury is writing, he could get us killed.”

“I don’t think he’d do that, Simon.” She has finished with the gingerbread.

I’m about to argue with her more, but she puts a chunk of gingerbread dough in my mouth, and just then the door opens. I’m very glad I hid the papers I copied as soon as I finished with them, shoved in a flat box under my cot.

It turns out I don’t need to worry, though; it’s just Mrs. Salisbury. Mrs. Salisbury isn’t really a passionate Patriot– she’d rather no one get hurt than win the Revolution in a military way, at least when it comes to young men like me. We’re too young, she says, to be throwing our lives away.

“Home,” she calls out lightly, and leans against the kitchen doorway. “Penelope, do you recall where I placed my knitting?” Mrs. Salisbury knits and sews all the time, selling them at the marketplace as an alternative to British produced goods– she may not love the Revolution, but she loves Mr. Salisbury, and Mr. Salisbury wants us to do anything and everything for the cause. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall,” Penny apologizes, straightening her apron, “Perhaps you left it in your rocking-chair?” 

Mrs. Salisbury loves her rocking chair.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Salisbury says.

“Simon, help me with the bread,” Penny commands, and so I do.

Penny’s the one who puts all ingredients together and mixes, but she shoves the dough across the floured table to me once this is done so I can knead it. Kneading consists of a lot of folding and punching. I remember Basilton’s little smile and imagine it’s him.

When Basilton gets back, he looks me up and down disdainfully. I’m well aware I look a mess– covered in flour and all– and I can _hear_ his snide remark in his eyes. 

“Powder without the wig,” Basilton drawls, “What a… bold fashion statement.” His coat is up, and he’s got tight clothes on underneath, prime for riding and close to the body so as not to get in the way when he fights. His hair is tied up behind his head, but as I watch, he pulls it out so it brushes against his shoulders at the ends.

His mouth twists, the right side lifting, as he watches me watch him. He knows as well as I do I’ll never reach the class of gentlemen who flounce about wearing wigs. 

I’ve got a box under my bed, right next to all the Patriot papers, full of money I’m saving for the day that Penny and I get a life of our own. Regretfully, it won’t be exciting (unless I get to fight!) but Agatha always wanted to up and away, and every now and again Mr. Salisbury drops a comment letting me know I won’t be sticking around forever. 

Once, last year, I straight out said, “Please don’t make me leave,” and he pressed his mouth thin. He didn’t make any promises. I’m half-sure he thinks I may die in the war.

I realize I’ve been watching Basilton’s face for a while now, and the smirk has faded a bit; now he’s meeting my eyes and not moving. They’re a pretty kind of grey– unfairly pretty– but there’s something dark in them. Like he’d like to devour me, or something. Something sinister, something that catches me and holds me captive in his gaze.

“The _dough_ , Simon. Don’t let it sit right _now_.” Penny bustles between us, carrying a pot of chopped potatoes, and I yank my eyes away from Basilton’s. What the hell was that?

Basilton dips his head once. “Miss Penelope,” he greets her, the picture of courtesy, and walks off, out of the kitchen. I hear him greet Mrs. Salisbury, complimenting the mittens she’s knitting.

“He wants me dead,” I mutter to Penelope, and she pushes me away, back towards the lump of dough. “He _does_ , I can _feel_ it.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” she says in a low voice, and then the louder, “When you finish with that, would you fetch wood for the stove?”

I tell her I will. There’s something in the sharpness of his eyes, the clever movements of his fingers. 

I have a feeling we won’t be safe for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thank you to everyone who left lovely comments on the last chapter!


	3. Young, scrappy, and hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has taken a bit of a fancy to Simon. (Just a bit.) But Simon and Baz are not getting along. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Apologies for the two-days-late chapter... I don't have an excuse. I literally just forgot. But here's this.)

**BAZ**

Simon is dusted in flour when I return, and he’s got atrociously short sleeves that show off his muscles (accidentally, I’m sure; he has the self-awareness of a rock) as he kneads the dough. His muscles shift as he folds the dough over, contract when he punches it. Fold, punch, fold, punch. 

Fleetingly, I look at his flushed cheeks and the flour on his nose and think he looks like something I want to eat. Which is absolutely the worst thought I’ve ever had, and I drop it immediately.

He stops when I step into the kitchen, looking at me. I realize I’m still in the military uniform Father sent me off with, which I hate. Or have hated until Simon’s eyes skate over me and I have to shoot off some comment before his eyes make my knees go out.

We stare at each other for a moment. His eyes are so blue. They’re a very normal blue, but they are so unafraid of being blue. They are like Simon. He is so much himself. Bold and eager, and unafraid. It’s only been a couple weeks, and I feel pathetic, looking at him this way already. He doesn’t hide a thing– I can see how unsettled he is to see me in the line of his shoulders, his unmoving stance. 

At supper, I can’t stop shooting looks his way, trying against my better judgment to catch that addictive feeling of drowning in him again. He looks at me a lot too, but with unmasked suspicion in his gaze. His dislike for me is palpable, and Penelope elbows him before he breaks his gaze from mine to pass the potatoes down.

“The potatoes are good,” Mrs. Salisbury says to Penelope. 

Penelope smiles the way people do when they know the compliment is true, but they appreciate who it’s from. It’s definitely not an expression I make much. It isn’t like my Father ever tells me I’ve done a good job, and the only other praise I want is praise from Simon. Which is even _less_ likely.

“If you hadn’t put Boston under siege, you would have more to work with,” I say, mostly to goad Simon. I’m under no illusions that this family is anything other than rebels, so I don’t pretend to generalize my comment: I stare him down as if he has singlehandedly caused the siege of Boston. Which, looking at him, I feel like he could achieve.

I miss the meals I used to have in England: tables creaking under the weight of dozens of richly flavored food. Sure, there’s usually more surplus here, but at home, we were rich enough to eat better than this, even in a land of less-plenty.

“You brought it upon yourself when you fired on the troops in Lexington.” Simon shoves another potato in his mouth with the barest consideration for table etiquette.

There's a stone cold feeling in my stomach. How _quickly_ he shoots it back at me! How _thoughtlessly!_ I think of my father, who I saw today. Of him sending me off, promising to hang Simon as soon as I have all the information I can get.

By some miracle, I keep my composure and raise an eyebrow. “You make it sound as if you’re against the Crown.”

His skin washes pale for a moment. _Too late; watch your tongue._ “They. We, the colonists. You know, I mean, I– you were talking to me as if it was me!”

“He means,” Mr. Salisbury butts in imperiously, “You implied us as colonists, so he replied in kind. We remind you, though, not all colonists oppose the Crown. Perhaps we are even Loyalists.” 

His face twists when he says _Crown_ and again when he says _Loyalists_ , which I find hilarious. I snicker into my food. 

Simon’s eyes flash. “You implied that on purpose,” he accuses.

“Did I?” I feign polite confusion, but he’s right. I did frame it that way on purpose, even though the last thing I want is for him to fall into my traps. 

I don’t know why.

Today I got on my things (the clothes soldiers wear really are tight around the bottoms) and switched out my coat when I was a safe distance from the Salisbury residence to “have a conversation” with my Father. The conversation was that I was not stationed in a household to enjoy myself, and I had better start making myself useful. 

“Look for weapons, search for papers, I want _results_ , Basilton. I want something substantial as soon as you’ve found it, if you want to go back home.” Father put Basilton on my quartering papers too, another quiet way to wound me. 

My heart twists in my chest as I remember England again: the books in our library, the certainty of my future there.

“I’m sure you can find something by the end of this year. I’d hate to think you’re holding out on me.” 

_He’s giving me a deadline,_ I remember thinking when he said this, _my father is giving me a deadline._

Simon isn’t nearly as subtle as he thinks; I know he goes out somewhere every couple of days and he acts very odd about it, like he’s trying a dozen times too hard to be casual. He comes back smelling faintly of fire and smoke. I know he’s carrying on something; by word of mouth or by paper, there’s a communication I should be monitoring. Something that might get me home.

And his shining curls and open grin will not get the best of me. Nor will his blue eyes. Even though I’m drowning in them right now.

Simon makes a frustrated sound in his throat and I smirk, because he hates my smirks. Granted, he hates everything I do.

“Please.” I push my potatoes to one side of my plate. “The siege isn’t even that bad– hardly effective. You made _gingerbread_ today.”

There’s still a bit of flour on the tip of his nose. I wonder, if I ran my fingers through his hair, would there be flour on my hands? I imagine licking the flour off his nose. (I’m disturbed. Ask anyone.)

“ _Penny_ made gingerbread,” Simon says, as if my implication that he made the gingerbread is somehow irredeemable, since I haven’t given Penelope the credit. “And we’ll have to make it last a long time, by the looks of it.”

“Oh? You don’t think the treasonous colonists will manage to run out our troops anytime soon so they can end this nonsense? What little confidence you have.”

“I don’t–!” Simon splutters, “They’re doing fine! We’re just not going to have ginger for a long time! Because of you.”

“Just me?”

“Because of the siege.” His jaw clenches, and I try not to sigh audibly. Life isn’t fair. “Because if the siege ends up harming both sides of the fight, it’s still worth it if the British eventually have to leave. To them. Worth it to them.”

“Simon did you finish your work for today?”

Simon looks away from me, and I’m not sure whether to be grateful for Mr. Salisbury’s question or not: on one hand, I hunger for Simon’s gaze now that it’s no longer on me; on the other, his gaze sets me on fire and I’m not sure I would’ve survived it much longer. A few more seconds and I would’ve gone up in flames like flash paper.

“Yes,” Simon says, the residual anger from our conversation still hanging on to the edges of his voice. 

I try not to shiver. Firing him up is an addiction I know I’ll never be able to quell, even only this far in. Two weeks is nothing, but if it’s enough for Simon to have decided he hates me, it’s long enough for me to start fancying him more than I’ve ever fancied anyone else before, apparently.

“What work?” I take care to pull the interest out of my voice and put judgement in its place. “Cooking?”

Something darts over Simon’s face fleetingly before he turns away, a sure sign that he’s lying. He’s as subtle as a British brigade. “Cleaning.”

Briefly, I think of the mud I tracked all over the wood floor and imagine Simon on his hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor, sweat down his arms in the muggy May sun and his unruly orange-gold curls hanging over his brow. Suddenly, I hope I’ll be here if he ever actually cleans. He’d be a vision.

He’s a vision now, too, because I’m sitting beside him and he’s between me and the window, giving him a beautiful profile against the sunset.

“Hardly my fault, the siege.” I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I just want the heat of his gaze again.

“Boston siege. And you’re a British soldier.” That last he says sarcastically. Stubborn as a mule. I shouldn’t find that attractive. I shouldn’t. I don’t, it’s stupid. But I see the determination in his eyes, and the tension in his muscles from his frustration, and dear God, I need a breather.

“Yes, I am,” I acknowledge, “Merely a low ranking solider. Far be it from me to control something as monumental as a British occupation.”

He growls low in his throat, like a bloody animal, and I can’t help it– I laugh at him, mostly in masochistic delight that I’ve frustrated him even more.

“I know you’re up to something,” he says, which is really just. I mean. At least give your accusations some more detail. Or variety.

I hum at him and finish off the last of my potatoes, basking in his incredulous gaze.

“You’re not even going to deny it?”

“If I do, it’s not going to change your mind.” I turn to him with my sharpest smile. “Is it?”

He blinks at me, looking at my mouth for a split second, and in that second, I swear my heart stops. “You’re not even going to deny it.”

“You’ve said that already.”

Simon opens his mouth and tugs at his hair. Aside from in writing, I’ve never seen anyone _literally_ tug their hair in frustration.

“Simon!” Penelope pushes back from the table, the wood chair making soft scratching noises against the floor. “Help with supper clean up, will you?”

Simon snaps his mouth shut and glares at me instead, like he expects me to read his words off the air. “Coming.”

“He’s up to something,” I hear him say through the wall. This house doesn’t have thin walls, but they aren’t thick either. “He didn’t even deny it.”

I can’t tell what Penelope says in return, but from the tone, it sounds like she’s heard this plenty of times. Sometimes I get the impression she hears it even more than I do, which is simultaneously horrible and gratifying. At least he talks about me. It almost doesn’t matter what he’s saying.

He finds more “evidence” in everything I do, but somehow in the smallest things.

I visit my father, and I refrain from telling him that Simon isn’t harbouring any misconceptions about my actually being a British solider. Instead, I listen to him tell me again and again to get something, _something_ he could use to counter the ever-growing efforts of the rebels.

“Basilton, letters will do. Whispers you hear, rumors. Eavesdrop, filch papers. Anything that hints towards useful information. You’re bright enough to at least recognise the signs without a piece of information coming to greet you with a hand to shake, aren’t you?”

I scowl at him. I already know what to look for. I already _know_ they’re “Patriots,” as the rebels like to call themselves– they’re _horrid_ at pretending they’re Loyalists. (I don’t say it since everything is in the attitude or circumstantial at the moment.) But what am I to do to get information? Ask them to their faces? Given that it’s public knowledge that jail is basically a death sentence, they’re highly unlikely to just offer up information on a silver platter.

They haven’t left anything out and I can hardly go rummaging through their drawers like a common thief– if I stuck my hand in Davy Salisbury’s pants drawer, my skin would crawl for months with the memory of it. If I stuck my hand in Simon’s pant’s drawer…

Oh bugger, I can’t be getting _excited_ in my father’s office. 

That thought quickly kills the excitement, thankfully, and I manage to make it through the whole thing

When I get back, Simon doesn’t even look suspicious when I come back, possibly because I’ve got a part of a wheel of cheese, and he’s quite distracted by it.

“Did you get it from the market?” Simon eyes the cheese I’ve got as I bring it to the kitchen. “Which stall?”

I stopped by to give myself a plausible excuse, and it was crowded as anything I’ve ever seen before. I couldn’t imagine having to go and shop among so many people every couple days, or why Simon would _enjoy_ it, of all things. 

“The sad one,” I say, “the lady was crying. I couldn’t tell why.” She’d sniffled a lot, but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with me– she seemed altogether rather sweet.

Penelope’s out, eating dinner in the middle of her trip to the market. A bit unconventional for the way she dresses (distinctly not like a working girl) but if I’ve learned anything about this family, it’s that they aren’t conventional. Mr Salisbury is practically a fanatic.

Mrs Salisbury is out selling things she’s made, which I would sneer at, except it leaves Simon and me alone in the house together. 

Simon is all shifty, like he’s waiting for me to leave, which also may give tip to why he didn’t bat an eye at me– he’s got something of his own to hide. What a pair we make. 

“What?” I snap, when he has blatantly watched me eat for half the hour. Our dinner is slices of bread he helped make, a bit of salted ham and the precious cheese I brought back from my stop at the market– the market is so dirty, and I can just _imagine_ Simon among the rush of commoners.

I suppose the cheese isn’t that precious; they’ve got enough money and they don’t skimp on their cheeses– they _always_ have goat cheese somewhere in the kitchen– but a little over a month into the siege has me wistfully recalling life in England with large dishes of quality food. 

Americans, for sure, eat heartily. Simon is the prime example of this: he eats like there’s something on his heels ready to snatch the food away. He has no sense of manners. I truly don’t know why I like him so much. But for all American’s hearty food, there’s no delicacy to it. Potatoes and bread, and the occasional turkey or chicken. It’s all to fill your stomach; there’s nothing to eat for the experience and presentation of it, the quiet judgement of how others carefully dissect the dish.

They don’t have prime or fancy cheeses. They just have… cheese. (I guess goat cheese just about reaches the end of their comfort zone.)

“Dunno,” Simon says articulately, and shrugs. Half of his sentences are shrugs. “I– you eat weird.”

“ _I_ eat weird?” As far as I know, I eat normally. I hold my hand in front of my mouth when I say: “You eat like a pig.”

Simon flushes. “You- you eat like a ponce.”

I let that sit in the air for a moment, making it clear I don’t consider that a valid response. “I eat like a ponce,” I repeat.

“Like a–” Simon fumbles with his utensils, and I laugh out loud. It comes out harsher than it's meant to, but then, everything does. “Like this.” 

He does an awkward impression of me, which shouldn’t be endearing. He’s mocking me, after all. But he covers his mouth and says some nonsense, cutting the ham careful and precise– he’s good with a knife– the way I do. 

And all I can think is _he’s noticed._

“Like a fucking fancy–”

“ _Language_ ,” I reprimand, partially to annoy him and partially actually surprised. I suppose this is what he’s like when Mr and Mrs Salisbury aren’t around.

He scowls at me. “There. If that’s not evidence you are someone of class or something, my name’s not Simon Snow Salisbury.”

I start, turning to stare at him. I’m addicted to his eyes. I’m addicted to the way I can get him so upset so easily. I’m addicted to everything Simon. His papers didn’t mention a last name, and those papers were everything officially known about him. “Your name _isn’t_ Simon Snow Salisbury.”

He flushes. “The point is, people curse all the time in the military ranks. You– I mean,” he makes a face, “like, you acted as if–” he’s not very good with words, Simon. “LIke people don’t curse that much around you. Or at all.”

“Maybe the British naturally possess more pleasant dispositions. Assuming you’re speaking from experience in the riots?” I raise an eyebrow and hold his gaze.

Simon’s hands, which were grabbing at another piece of bread (I swear, this man could eat an entire feast all himself), freeze. “They weren’t rio– I’m not speaking from– I’m not– I just know. Soldiers are vulgar.” He frowns at me. “ _All_ soldiers are vulgar.”

As if to punctuate this statement, he takes another huge bite of bread and takes a bit of cheese down after it. I watch in morbid fascination as he manages to fit in ham, too, and chew all of this.

“They are if they all eat like you,” I say, and carefully wipe my fingers on the cloth napkin. Simon’s eyes follow the movement.

“But _you_ eat like _that,_ ” I think he says, but it’s hard to tell, because his mouth is so full. 

I don’t even mind. Why don’t I mind? I _should_ mind that he eats like a barbarian, but he’s so beautiful and handsome and stubborn and bloody well-meaning to _everyone._ (Except me; he’s convinced I’m evil. I mind _that._ Just a bit.)

“So your last name is actually Salisbury?” I make sure to add a healthy dose of skepticism to my voice so he understands it’s rhetorical question to remind him of his lack of family and not… something else. Like a desperate attempt at conversation.

It’s too silent anyway: the city is the loudest place I’ve ever lived, but even the incessant clatter of tongues and horses doesn’t counteract the pointed silence between the two of us. It’s even worse since no one else is home: there’s no _Simon, fetch this,_ or _Penelope, here, please_ , or even Mr Salisbury’s endless freedom talk. 

Mr Salisbury– David, I believe his name is– talks like an overly impassioned preacher on the pulpit, only he doesn’t really have the audience; the only one who ever looks like he’s listening is Simon, who’s disgustingly taken by the whole idea of revolution. Unfortunately (in Mr Salisbury’s case) and fortunately (in Simon’s case), talk isn’t incriminating enough for my father, not unless it goes hand in hand with true threats of action.

Anger and hurt tumble over Simon’s face, and he settles on a scowl at me. He’s made up completely of red feelings, I swear it. Anger, pain, love. _Love_. Goodness, I need to get a handle on myself. I’m blushing just imagining Simon in love with someone, how determined he’d be, how steadfast. (In my head, it’s me.) Determination, that’s another red emotion. (Maybe some yellow. He’s really, painfully sunny sometimes.)

“I’m like a son to them,” he says uncertainly, and I take note of it so I can possibly hurt him with it later. “People call me young Mr Salisbury sometimes.”

“That doesn’t count,” I sneer, “You’re not their real son. You’re documented as a servant, aren’t you? Do your _papers_ say Simon Snow Salisbury?”

I know they don’t. The people under my father only have one complete copy of his papers– the copy he gave to me (plus the handwritten notes)– since he isn’t wildly important like some of the other people we’re keeping tabs on, but even so, it contains all his legal information. 

His eyebrows pull down. “Fuck _off_.”

I smile cruelly. “Do _they_ know you’re so vulgar? You don’t spew curses around them, do you? Trying to be the perfect son so they don’t drop you like your mum and dad?” 

He’s clenching his fist again, and I laugh, drunk on his burning attention. He’s not even eating anymore, and _fuck_ he’s standing.

He’s a dream, or maybe a nightmare, towering over me (only because I’m still sitting) with his rippling muscles, looking like murder.

“Lost cause, I’m afraid.” I look him up and down. (He’s _gorgeous._ ) “You’re not much of a keeper.” 

That’s when he punches me.

I’ve never gotten punched before.

I grew up taking English and Greek and Latin and violin, dressed in pressed shirts and living on a secluded estate in London. Sometimes I wondered if the stories of scuffles was a _myth_ about boys, that’s how secluded I was.

I didn’t know it hurt this much. _It hurts._ Maybe because Simon is really strong, or because I’ve never been punched before. Or a million other reasons I can’t think of because it hurts incredibly right now.

I don’t know how to block. When I open my eyes, he’s coming at me again, and I realize I’ve half-fallen out of my chair. I straighten, standing on shaky legs, and shove him away from me as hard as I can. I don’t want to punch him. I don’t think my hand would survive.

Simon stumbles back a couple steps, and then–

_Fuck._

I forgot the stairs down to the room we share were _directly_ behind him.

He tumbles down.

It sounds like something breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented, it makes my day!


	4. A month into this endevor I recieved a letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon hates feeling useless, and he hates Baz for making him feel useless. Yeah, he hates Baz. He totally hates Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making every chapter name a Hamilton lyric is proving harder than I thought.

**SIMON**

My arm hurts like _hell_. 

This is worse than the time I learned to fire a musket and wasn’t ready for the kickback of the shot. It’s worse than the time the guy behind me fired without warning, right by my ear, and my hearing left for a week, and I had to come up with some plausible story so Mrs. Salisbury didn’t think I was training for the militia.

Maybe not quite that bad.

But I can’t move my arm. I’m pretty sure it’s broken from the way it’s hanging all wrong, and the pain that shoots through my head, messing up my thoughts.

Penny’s fussing over it, and I think she finally doesn’t like Basilton. She won’t speak to him at all, even though he probably needs ice for the bruises on his face. Too bad. It’s May. 

Why did I think we’d be able to handle ourselves with everyone else out? Kind of stupid of me.

I’m not sure how I’m going to copy out Mr. Salisbury’s papers or respond to any of the letters I get from post: my right arm is the one that Penny’s putting up in a sling right now. She wets a wash towel and I put that on my arm.

She knows medical stuff, Penny. She likes to read books on medicine, and as she fusses over me, I feel much more secure, because I know she knows how to handle a broken arm, and that’s much better than having to call for a doctor.

Basilton’s sitting sullenly on the couch, answering every one of Penny’s fierce looks with a sneer, but he looks away whenever I glare at him.

“I’ll fix you up and fashion you a sling,” Penny promises, and I nod. I’m gritting my teeth too hard to answer much.

When she finishes with the sling, she marches right up to Basilton. 

He stands challengingly, and I unclench my teeth long enough to call a “Fuck you!”

Penny slaps him _hard_ across the face, and I almost laugh at his clear-eyed outrage. (Not even Basilton would hit a lady, even a working lady.)

“I never took you for the violent type.” His expression returns to unfazed so bloody quickly, and I clench my fist. What the _hell_ Basliton. I’ll get him to lose control someday, I swear to it. He’s gotta be pure evil– he has _no_ remorse. He has no _emotions_. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile kindly; his face isn’t made for it. It’s sharp and delicate, and with his droopy eyes and _that mouth_. His features were made for pouting.

I can’t believe I’m thinking about his face. Again.

Basilton is fixing his cuffs and Penny is threatening him with a shaking finger (like someone’s over protective mum, and it makes me warm inside) to stay away from me.

My arm hurts like needles are stabbing into it, but intensified, sharp and blinding. A twinge of satisfaction shoots through me when I realize Basilton’s nose has started bleeding again. He cups his hands over it so it won’t drip, getting his hands bloody. Some of it gets on his chin and lips, as if he’s been drinking blood.

“Now you worry about keeping the floor clean?” I look at him incredulously.

He actually stops pinching the bridge of his nose to shoot back, “Maybe I’ll wipe the floor with _you_ , Snow.” 

He doesn’t even know why they call me Snow, and I’m not about to tell him. I wonder what he’d sound like with his nose pinched, and how long I could make fun of him for it.

“I bet you can’t even fight, you twat.”

He looks me up and down again, disinterestedly. (Though disinterested or no, he sure looks me up and down a lot…) “Sure,” he sighs, like I’m being the stupid one. His fingers keep moving to catch the blood as he releases his nose to speak more. What a _ponce_. “You’re the one with the broken arm.”

“ _You_ didn’t break my arm, you just pushed me down the stairs.” 

Penny comes back and gives me half a gingerbread biscuit. 

“Oh, Penny.” Gingerbread is special, because ginger comes from so far and is so expensive and we’re under siege for God’s sake, but she knows how much I love it.

“On purpose.” He watches Penny move my curls, and I’m in too much pain to tell her to stop– it feels nice anyway.

“Move, Basilton,” Penny demands, dragging me to the chair where he’d been sitting.

“I broke his arm, not his leg.” Basilton sits back down with a sneery contrary look on his face. 

“ _Move_.”

No one argues with Penny when she’s like this, even though I do sort of feel like sitting isn’t going to help me that much. Mrs. Salisbury’s chair– the one Basilton is sitting on– is less chunky and not near the table where I might knock my arm, which feels like shattered glass shards that are digging into my flesh when I move my arm or bump into something.

Basilton has a river of blood slowly creeping down his neck and forearm, getting on the pristine white of his shirt. He looks at us both coolly, somehow able to look dignified with a hand cupped over his nose and the other pinching the bridge of it. He stands like it was his own idea, and walks past me on my right side deliberately so he can bump my arm along the way.

I try not to hiss through my teeth, and end up biting my tongue bloody. I make an angry sound, and he scoffs, the side of his mouth twisting up, as he walks away.

At night, it’s hard to get my nightshirt on, and though Basilton never used to watch me undress, he does now. I _hate_ him, _bugger_ him. I unhook my sling, which the Penny fixed up for me, and have to undo all my buttons with my left hand. When I manage to get it off, pain shoots up my arm because I’ve moved it. 

I’m glad I’m not facing Basilton, or he’d see by candlelight that my face is screwed up in pain. The nightshirt is hard to get over my arm, and I hear him snicker beside me. 

_“Bugger off_ ,” I growl, and blow out the candle. I’ve never seen Basilton undress, but I’m not going to leave him light if he wants to take his sweet time with it.

I can feel Basilton’s mocking gaze on me the whole week– for an active soldier, he sure is home a lot– and I feel like boiling over. 

Whenever Basilton _isn’t_ watching me and Mrs. Salisbury is gone, too, Mr. Salisbury appears at my side, muttering how it’s a shame I couldn’t keep my temper. “Now you can’t fight, Simon. What are you going to do? You can hardly shoot a musket with just your left arm.”

And then Basilton, who can never get enough of sneering pointedly at my arm, will appear and Mr. Salisbury busies himself with something else.

A couple times I go to swing at Basilton, but he shoves at me with wide eyes. (I don’t know what he’s worried about, my left is pretty weak.)

“Trying to fight me with a broken arm?” he sneers, “I had grievously low expectations in regards to your intelligence, but it seems even those standards have been disappointed.”

“Stop _talking_ like that,” I snap. 

I shove him back against the wall with a palm to his chest, and he hits it with a _thump_. Even the rich, dark wood of our house looks light beside the pitch black of his hair. His nose looks a bit crooked now, and his bruises are still purple-yellow-blue where I got him in the eye and on his jaw. I guess I punched him pretty hard.

When I swing at his face, he shoves at my chest and tries to duck right, instead of stumbling back the way he usually does– he can’t go back; I’ve got him against the wall. 

His shove is stronger this time, panicked, and his footing is wrong. He hasn’t spread his stance wide enough, so he stumbles off balance when he tries to throw all his weight right and I stop.

“You don’t know how to fight,” I realize.

Basilton sneers at me. “You already tried that one.”

“I–” I do remember saying that. “I just said that. I didn’t mean it.” I mean it now. He moves like he’s never fought in his life. “Who _are_ you?” I ask, before I can stop myself. 

Every boy I know has had at least enough scuffles to… well to be better than this. To know how to duck a blow, at least.

Basilton grins, and because no one’s home (again) he says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

He’s inching away from me, though.

“I’m not going to hit you,” I say quickly, and hurriedly step back. I was crowding him up against the wall, wasn’t I. “I wouldn’t’ve hit you in the first place if I knew you couldn’t fight.” Or if he was less of an arsehole, but that goes without saying.

Basilton scowls at me. “I can fight just fine–”

“Bullshit–”

“And why would you want to get hurt?”

I wrinkle my forehead at him, but he doesn’t clarify.

“I don’t want to get hurt.” It seems an obvious thing to me. “I never said–”

“You only fight people who know how to fight…?”

“Well, yeah.” I shrug. “I reckon it wouldn’t be all that fair if I were to fight someone who can’t fight back.” 

Afterall, that’s essentially what Britain’s doing to us: hurting us because we don’t have the power or resources to change their policy or fight back. We are _trying_.

“ _Couldn’t_ ,” Basilton corrects, infuriatingly superior, “I _can_ fight.”

He’s not going to convince me. Does he think he can convince me?

“No you can’t,” I say, and then realize maybe he’s baiting me. 

He lunges for my arm and I shout, pain exploding in my arm. “Fuck– Bas–” I lash out with my left and get my arm free of his grip, but even him letting go shifts it painfully, and my words break off in another shout.

I can’t think straight around the pain in my arm.

It felt like I got his mouth, and I hope it’s bleeding. It wasn’t his eyes– the one I didn’t get a week ago is perfect as ever and the other doesn’t look like it just got punched– yes, there, there’s blood down his lip again. His hair is still perfect, even though it’s not even tied at the back of his neck. 

We stand there, looking at each other. He’s so stoic, so unreadable. I swear he’s in pain, but he doesn’t look it. He’s just watching me.

“I shouldn’t fight you,” I say eventually, though I _really_ want to, and he sneers at me. 

“You _can’t_.” He looks pointedly at my sling, and I almost swing at him again. Something flickers in his eyes, and he stalks past me. “Make yourself as useful as you can with that arm,” he says over his shoulder.

I take deep breaths. I feel like a powder keg about to explode, and Penny isn’t even here to lighten the load. When is Penny getting back? She went out again to help Mrs. Salisbury with her fabric stall. I wonder if they’ll sell the nice red they dyed recently, the one that turned Penny’s hair red, chasing out the purple. 

Thinking about Penny calms me down a bit, and I drop into a chair less violently than I wish I could, so that I don’t hurt my elbow, wondering what to do with myself.

I resent Baz’s comment– if he’s gonna call me Snow, I get to bastardize his name too, right?– but also I do want to make myself useful. 

I always want to make myself useful, I owe the Salisburys that much, at least. Did Baz notice that about me and make that comment specifically to hurt me or did he just say it offhand?

I wonder what else Baz has noticed about me. I bet he’s studying me, plotting my downfall or something equally sinister. 

Am I easy to read? I bloody hope not, but Agatha always told me I was like an open book, which isn’t a saying I’m fond of, because books are pretty difficult, I think. They’re horrid to slog through– writers dance about their point for _pages_. If I’m as easy to read as an open book, I think I’d be as blank-faced as Baz, but I know that’s not what she meant. 

Occasionally, I wonder if she wasn’t that broken up about leaving me because she knew how un-devastating it would be for me. I missed her like… well, like when Premal moved away. Maybe all the stories about heartbreak are just exaggerated, I don’t know.

Baz comes into the room and settles himself into Mrs. Salisbury’s favorite chair like he belongs there (it’s our best chair, the rest aren’t as soft or cozy) with something tucked under his arm. Blue-purple skin aside, he looks perfect, like a story-book prince, only one who’s evil and never learned how to smile. 

“You reckon heartbreak is supposed to hurt?” I ask him, and then realize it’s probably not an effective question to ask Baz. I doubt Basilton Pitch has any experience with love. I can’t believe I’m now imagining Basilton in love– or trying to. Nothing comes to mind. 

He looks at me, an odd twist to his mouth, and opens his mouth, licks at his teeth. There’s blood on his lips. He licks away. I look away from his tongue. “Did one of your lady friends leave you? It wouldn’t happen to be Penelope would it?” 

I make a face before I can even stop myself, and he laughs. Not the cruel laugh I’ve come to know, but a genuine, breathy, soft sort of surprised laugh, like he didn’t know to laugh any more than I meant to pull a face.

“Goodness,” he says, “I suppose not.”

“No, it’s not– Penny’s great.” I don’t know how we got here. “We’re just not… like that.”

He smirks at me, but it isn’t sharp. “Not interested in ladies?”

“ _What_?” I flush at the idea of taking up with a man. “ _No_ , I’m not– I’ve got Miss Agatha– anyway, _you’re_ one to talk.” I don’t mean it until it’s out of my mouth, but once I’ve said it, I realize I do think it. He’s as much of a poof as it gets, I think; he’s so delicate-looking and elegantly built, and he moves like a mistress who learned just the right way to go about things in order to be as sensual as possible.

“I– am–” Baz stutters, caught off guard for once. “Whatever aids your peace of mind.” 

He looks away from me, color high on his cheeks. He’s probably scandalized from the subject matter, the classy ponce. 

“I’ll play something with heartbreak.” He settles into the chair, knees parting so he can set his feet apart, steadying the rocking. He should’ve chosen a different chair if he didn’t want it to rock.

The thing he had tucked under his arm– which I thought was a polished hunk of wood or something– is a _violin_. He’s got a bow, too, which I guess isn’t that strange if he’s got a violin, but. He’s got a _violin_.

“You’ve got a violin,” I say.

“Yes,” he says, sounding amused, “I’m aware.”

I blink at him. Where did he get a violin? “You’ve been here for two months and you’ve brought a violin?” 

“I don’t check all my bags past you.” He runs a few notes, turning the little knobs like he really knows what he’s doing.

“They’re expensive,” I accuse.

“It was a special present to me when I joined the Army,” Baz says smoothly. He’s holding the violin on his shoulder, and his fingers are so sure. I don’t believe him for a moment.

Apparently satisfied with the quality of the sound, he runs the scales.

“You can play,” I say stupidly.

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn to play?”

“People knew. I taught myself a bit, and practiced.” Isn’t maintenance of a violin expensive? I consider asking, but Baz cuts me off with, “Is this an interrogation?”

I shake myself; I was watching his fingers play idly over his bow, long and slender and elegant. He’s a rich boy, I know it. “No– I– you have a violin.”

He smiles then, a real smile. Blood trickles down his lip, and he licks it away, still smiling. I can’t take my eyes off his smile. Because I’ve never seen him smile before. And also because it’s a nice smile. I mean, compared to his sneer. I mean, he looks kind of nice, smiling like that. I mean. I don’t know.

“Yes,” he says, and then, “I’d teach you, but you need two arms.” He snickers at me.

I stomp out of the room.

Baz plays the violin a lot for the next month, presumably to put emphasis on my lack of useful arms, but evidently it’s actually because he enjoys it. It drives me half around the bend, because I hate feeling useless, but if he really wanted to make me feel like shit, violin wasn’t the best choice. I can’t even play violin when I have both arms, and I think I would feel almost as useless playing violin as not doing anything at all. 

If anything, I’m restless to go outside and talk to people, but markets are too full– too many people to jostle my arm, and if markets are usually crowded, they’re even more full these days, this summer. Everyone is in a race to buy up what Boston has since there’s a deficit with the siege and all. I hear British soldiers in Boston are quite affected, which serves those bastards right. I think the siege is working, and I _know_ we can get these soldiers _out_. Rumor has it General Washington is on his way to take charge of the men here, so we can effectively drive out the British.

I miss Miss Ebeneza, even though Penny still gets her goat cheese and Miss Ebeneza was always sad anyway. She was always very kind. Sometimes I wonder if she’s sad because her husband died– I asked her sometimes, whether she’d thought of ever getting married, and she sniffed and slipped her big hands into her dress pockets, looking even sadder than before. 

Penny saves me change, too, but there’s still less going into my savings than there used to be, when I could get a couple coins hauling things about the print shop. At least I get to talk to the printer’s son, Micah, who’s also the apprentice, when I go to bring Mr. Salisbury’s papers. Micah’s serious and knowledgeable, and it makes me feel a little less lonely. 

As for the large books I used to pick up _from_ the printer, Mr. Salisbury has to stretch his schedule about in order to fetch them himself. He’s annoyed at me for starting a fight. I can hardly tell him it’s because I snapped off at Baz for saying I wasn’t part of the family.

I wish I could go back to the market and see everyone again. Chat with Miss Ebeneza, get a meat pie… 

Right now, Mrs. Salisbury is knitting, and Baz has taken an inferior seat to play his violin, which means it’s safe for me to go out– I’ve got to check if General Thomas has had someone send me anything this week. Mrs. Salisbury has never been all that passionate about the cause, but she’s downright _driven_ about keeping me and Penny safe, so I know there’s no way she’ll let Baz tail me.

When I’m pulling on my coat, which hurts a bit (though a month in a sling has done my arm good) Baz opens his eyes at me. He closes them when he plays sometimes, and he looks like a dark angel. A demon, I guess. 

When he said he’d play me a heartbreaker, he followed through. The sweeping melody felt heartbreakingly longing for something couldn’t be rather than nostalgia for something that was (is that what heartbreak is supposed to feel like?). But since then he’s never _stopped_. Every time he plays, it’s like he’s putting Romeo and Juliet into music, but without the happy parts.

“Pray tell what calls you out of the house at this hour?” 

_This hour_ is an hour before supper– which is to say _this hour_ is not an unusual hour to be about.

Mrs. Salisbury fixes her eyes on Baz, and I smile to myself– I’m safe.

“Nothing which concerns you,” I say, and immediately feel very posh. “None of your business,” I correct myself, and feel better. I’m out before I can hear his response. 

Even though the sun is sinking, sitting right above the rooftops, July evenings are not cool, not in the least. The houses aren’t tall either; high as the trees that dot the roadside or shorter, usually, and dark will fall soon. Today’s one of those days we eat supper by candle and lamp, because Penny was too busy to start cooking until late. It’s happened more this past month since Baz broke my arm and I haven’t been able to help properly.

Shadows fall long against the sidewalk and the way I’m going, I can see mine stretch out like a pole in front of me on the dirty cobblestones. I’m not that tall or that skinny– if you took away the unruly silhouette of my curls, my shadow could be Baz’s figure, except I’m not nearly as graceful.

There’s a bloke playing fiddle on the side of the road, and I realize I’ve got Baz’s melody stuck in my head. _Bugger_. I take a right at the next juncture and there it is– our alley. 

To the very end of it, people mill about, chatting with one another, the evening light throwing everyone’s faces askew and the smell of sizzling meat on the air. 

It’s the Friday evening market, where a few people sell what they’ve got left, papers hawk the last of their copies, and unmarried young people gather about to speak in playful tones and enjoy a few stalls that show up specifically for this crowd. I blend right in. Even my stark white sling doesn’t draw eyes– in Boston, there are so many skirmishes here and there, no one bats an eye.

Between a colonial tea stall and one that is trying too hard to sell stale bread before it goes bad, a newsboy boasts that he’s got early papers that aren’t supposed to be in print yet. No one is stupid enough to buy one off him– usually news is really recent, written a day or two before, and besides, most of these city folk don’t read paper. Many of them don’t _read,_ like me. I read. But just barely. They’ll get the news by word of mouth; we’re mostly working people for bigger houses here.

I buy one off him.

“Shame about your arm, mate.” He grins at me, lifting and resettling his cap. It’s not a flattering cap, and his curls are nice, but he likes to wear it to keep the setting sun out of his eyes. “Hope you come around again soon.”

I’ve seen Shepard around on the field sometimes, and said hello, but it still surprises me that people notice me from training and shoot practices. I mostly know Shepard from this newsstand here. Agatha used to say I draw eyes; Penny says it’s because I’m chummy with General Thomas.

I fold the paper tight and stuff it into my pocket. “Got a bloke staying,” I say, and he knows what I mean. “But when this arm’s better, I’ll find a way.”

He hasn’t gotten anyone quartered up at his place yet, but we’re all holding our breaths for it, because he has got this area’s correspondence in his hands. He keeps real careful– more careful than I could ever manage. In my defence, I do usually burn the note as soon as I’ve committed it to memory. I settle down on the edge of the road, trying to look natural as I check to make sure no one is behind me.

Tucked in the folded newspaper, now crumpled from my coat pocket, is a sheet of paper. I recognise General Thomas’s own handwriting immediately– even though it’s technically a cursive script, it’s hard lined and blocky-looking.

 _Milton, storehouse. Roxbury, west end safe house. Chelsea, northeast tavern and secondary storehouse._

Oh. _Oh_. 

“Lexington and Concord” is scrawled at the bottom. 

The secondary locations.

We moved most of our arms off to when the British came marching. It’s vague enough that no one will be able to _decode_ it, per say, but those who know, know. 

He does this sometimes– sends out information months before anything happens. He likes to be safe and prepare, General Thomas. I’m dead jealous of it. I wish he’d written what he was planning. I wish even more I could go _ask_ him, but I can’t with Baz in my house and a broken arm. 

How long did Shepard have that paper waiting for me? A week?

 _Milton, Roxbury, Chelsea, Chelsea,_ I repeat the locations over and over in my head. _Mac lives in Milton_ , I think; _Pacey in Chelsea, Martin in Roxbury._ I commit them to memory. (Penny says I have too many friends. “Never care about more people than you can defend in a skirmish,” she said, but my friends fight in skirmishes all on their own and can defend themselves just fine.)

After I’ve gotten them down (Milton, Roxbury, Chelsea, Chelsea), I awkwardly swipe a match on the sole of my boot with my left hand. It doesn’t catch. I try to imagine the way my right wrist moves when I strike a flame, but when I manage to get another match out of the matchbox and I try again, the motions don’t go the same.

I groan, strike harder, but there’s nothing I can really do about it– Shepard isn’t watching me so he can’t offer me the match; it would look too suspicious. 

I stuff the bit of paper back into my pocket.

I’ll go straight to my room and put it in my box under my cot when I get back home, right next to my work savings, I promise myself. _Right away._

I make like I’ve given up trying to light the smoke, drop it to the ground, and walk home.


	5. The revolution's imminent. What do you stall for?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot continues to evade me as our boys talk politics (read: Baz endlessly frustrates Simon) and Simon continues to go about his revolutionary business, even with Baz sticking his nose in everything (read: Baz knows exactly what Simon is up to, but has no idea what he wants to do about it.)

**BAZ**

Snow, which I’ve taken to calling him because it seems to bother him when I do, strides into the room we share like a man on a mission and stops short when he sees me sitting on the edge of my bed. 

His bed, technically, but it’s my bed in my head because I’ve never seen him sleep in it. I imagine him sleeping in it with me and my body goes hot. 

I imagine holding his hands, curling my body around him, or letting him hold me. I don’t care, as long as we’re linked. He could light fires in my palms and I wouldn’t pull away.

Speaking of fire, he doesn’t smell strongly of flash fire and paper, the way he usually does when he goes off to wherever it is every Friday evening. He always smells a little like fire, paper and ink, and sun, but it’s usually stronger when he gets back on Fridays, the smell of ash hanging about him.

I wonder what he burns and why he didn’t burn it today– the paper and ink make sense; I’ve seen him painstakingly writing out Davy Salisbury’s writings. Though I’ve never managed to get my hands on what it is he’s coping out, and that amount of care must it’s something for the printer.

As for the sun, the way Snow glows when he’s energetic, his furnace-like body heat, his brilliant smile– he’s got me convinced he _is_ the sun, and I’m crashing into him. I’m going to burn myself on him, it’s inevitable. He pulls me in like a magnet. 

It’s only a matter of time before I slip up and he has me under charges of sodomy.

_In any case._

Fire– I don’t know where the smell of fire comes from. He’s burning something every Friday, and he didn’t today.

I curl my lip. “What are you standing there in the door for?” I’d love for him to keep standing there, letting me devour him with my eyes, but he doesn’t need to know that. “You don’t expect me to take off your coat, do you? That’s more your job, I believe.”

His eyes flash, and he starts from the doorway. He _hates_ it when I remind him of his job– I think he likes to pretend he’s really part of the Salisbury’s family. (Who am I kidding, he might as well be. They’re all halfway in love with the life of him, and brightness of him, and I can’t say I blame them for it.) 

“Fuck off,” he mutters, which means I’ve won. He looks so awkward in the room, one hand fisted tight on his coat like he’s afraid I _will_ take it, the other in a sling with the empty sleeve hanging off his shoulder. 

He’s hiding something in his coat, I’m sure of it.

I _do_ want to take his coat, and then also his shirt, and his trousers, and– I stand smoothly, desperate to get out of the room before my own trousers begin to feel a bit tight. I need to stop thinking like this– it could literally get me killed. 

It isn’t as if I haven’t seen him take his shirt off either– we share a room. I haven’t the muscle mass Snow has, and I’m pathetically unable to bring myself to pull off my own clothes in his presence, but stocky Simon Snow doesn’t seem to have any qualms. 

“I reckon it’s nearly supper.” I raise my eyebrow at him in his coat and his sling, and make a point to walk out of the room, making my footsteps a touch louder than necessary. 

Then I creep quietly back. 

I feel a little bit ridiculous, even in the fallen last rays of the sun and the deep brown walls of the house, which if anything should be conducive to creeping about like a true spy.

I can hear him rustling about inside– it’s not the rustle of clothes but of… paper. 

I’m not surprised, and my stomach turns, triumph and defeat grappling each other. My father wanted me to find something on Snow by the end of this year– a ticking clock that makes every day feel a little more desperate– and by the way Snow is acting, _I’ve actually found something on Snow._

But I was truly hoping I wouldn’t, and that Snow would be so careful, I wouldn’t have to hurt him.

He’ll be _hung_ …

Unless it’s not a big enough deal for my father to be satisfied, in which case, he’ll keep me on until I’m able to wring every last drop of usefulness out of Snow. 

“Careful” is not Snow’s middle name (“Snow” is, apparently) and I know that. “Careful” isn’t in Snow’s _vocabulary_ , and I know that too. I shouldn’t have hoped.

But I shouldn’t jump to conclusions either. So he’s hiding paper in his bedroom. It could very well be a love letter (though why he’d burn those before returning here every Friday baffles me). That doesn’t lift my spirits in the least.

 _God_ , I find myself thinking, _I hope it’s insubstantial._

I could also not look. But I think about England’s fresh air and Daphne’s sweet singing as she rocks my youngest brother in her arms, of her violin lessons and of Dev and Niall and I… have to at least look at whatever Snow has.

The supper bell rings, and I hurry to the dining room before Snow comes charging out of our shared room like a dog called to his master. That man is ruled by food and food alone.

It has been rather a delight to watch Snow grapple with his food, trying to eat with his left hand for the past month. As usual, he alternates from staring miserably at his food, which he can no longer scoop up or cut with ease, and vacuuming it up, because he’s truly ravenous. He’s always ravenous. He’s not even been active lately, and he’s still ravenous. 

I can’t even enjoy laughing at it tonight, because I’m too preoccupied with the paper.

When Snow has finally struggled out of his shirt with a frustrated growl– I want to go and help him and comb my fingers through his hair, and calm his frustration, but I don’t, I never do– he blows out the candle. I pull off my own clothes quietly, folding them in the dark, which is more care than Snow affords _his_ clothes.

If I don’t wear any blankets, the July heat can almost be construed as tolerable, but even then, I cannot sleep. The scent of Simon has faded from the pillows. (Snow. I will call him Snow. It’s less personal that way.) 

I roll over and stare at the ceiling.

What will I even do if I find that Snow’s letter is patriot correspondence?

 _Nothing_ is a nice answer, a noble one. 

But I can’t just be here _like this_ forever. 

I miss England desperately, and if Snow’s got information that’ll satisfy my father, that could be my ticket home. If I didn’t do anything, where would that get me? It isn’t as if Simon and I will ever have anything special, what with the way he’s convinced I aim to kill him– God, he couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

Could he?

Would I turn in evidence that would get him hanged to get home? Whatever happens to him doesn’t concern me anyway.

I laugh at myself. _Haha._ I’d die for him sooner than I’d get him killed.

_But._

If I can’t dredge something up by my deadline, my father will surely cut me loose to the streets and– worse– send someone else to Snow’s household. Someone who will hang them all in the blink of an eye. They’re so bloody _bad_ at hiding.

I’ll just have to wait for Snow to leave the house for a long time when no one is paying attention to me, and hope to find something in the middle ground: useful enough to appease my father but not useful enough to make him think that’s the best he can get out of Snow.

The possibility of that letter keeps me on edge for what feels like forever. _Two weeks,_ someone is here– it’s so hot everyone wants to stay inside as well.

Snow stays home nearly every minute of the day, twice as easy to tick off because of the heat. I imagine being a human fire and being subjected to intense sun are not enjoyable sensations to experience simultaneously. 

Even so, I think as I glimpse Snow hugging Penelope in the kitchen, were Snow to wrap me up in his too-hot embrace, I think I’d let him. I _know_ I’d let him. 

He’s a menace to my peace of mind.

On the Friday of the second week, he goes out again.

“Why do you always go out on Friday evenings?” I ask. I’m reading on the couch when he struggles to get his coat on, one foot out the door.

He shrugs at me. “Get some air,” he says, and looks to Lucy Salisbury. “Do you want anything from the market?” 

I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.

I hum and turn the page, even though I have no idea what I’ve just read. He’s too bloody distracting. “Fetch me another book if they’re selling a new one anywhere. I’m nearly finished with this one.” 

It’s a political book, recently published. Written by a Loyalist of the colonies, arguing against the war already begun. If only Snow were a loyalist, I wouldn’t be half out of my mind wondering if I’ll find anything incriminating about him and what I’ll do if– or when– I do.

But if Snow were a Loyalist, he really wouldn’t be the same person, and my sanity might just be a worthy price to pay for a character like him to exist.

“I didn’t ask _you_ ,” Snow snaps at me. 

Lucy Salisbury hasn’t said anything. She’s a quiet woman, Lucy. “I can’t think of anything.” She looks as if she’s still thinking. 

Her wooden needles click, the beginnings of a lightly red-dyed child’s mitten just peeking out from under her hand. It’s hard to see where Snow and Lucy are similar, which parts she’s nurtured out of him. He doesn’t seem to have her temperament at all– he’s all his own, really. Perhaps his caring side can be attributed to Lucy. Simon Snow is caring to the point of overbearing.

“Fine.” I stand and carefully mark the page of my book with a red ribbon. “I’ll join you, and then I’ll pick a book myself. Excuse me while I retrieve my coat.”

Snow growls behind me, and I know his left hand is clenched into a fist. If I turned to look, his eyes would probably burn me alive. I don’t look, but a shiver runs down my spine anyway. From what I understand, the Friday alley market is where the poor, young, unmarried folk gather to forget they’re never going to have a future outside of service to the upper class.

A romantic night, to them. What wouldn’t I give for Snow to take me there, with him, voluntarily?

I step back as I put my coat on, knowing Snow is less than a foot behind me in the doorway of the foyer. I think I might be able to feel the warmth rolling off him.

“Don’t come!”

I turn sharply to look at Snow, who blanches.

“I mean, why would you want… To come? To the market? _With me_?”

“Judging from your verbal mastery of the language, David Salisbury would be better off hiring a different copy boy.” I slip the last button through its loop. “With regards to your questions, I hardly have anything better to do this in dull house.”

“It’s not–! I copy _fine_ , and you–!” Snow blusters like no one else. He points to the book I left on the table, the red ribbon visibly peeking out between the pages near the end of the book. “You were just reading!”

“I’ve nearly finished the book.” I take care to look at him with disdainful impatience and sound unaffected by the fact that we’re still less than a foot apart. If we stayed this way a minute longer, I could count all his moles. I _do_ think it would take me one full minute– Snow has quite a number of moles. 

I’d like to kiss them all, one by one.

“When I have, I’ll truly have nothing but your torment to occupy my time.” He’s got one on his neck.

“Bastilton,” Lucy Salisbury sighs, and I step back almost involuntarily, trying not to look too startled by the reminder that Snow and I aren’t alone. “I’m not sure you’d find yourself fond of the Friday market. It’s rather–”

“Rowdy,” Snow jumps in, “You’d hate it. No one has any manners.”

I flick up my collar. “Now you’re just spewing things you believe will deter me from accompanying you.”

He scowls and switches tracks again. “There’s still plenty of that book left. You’ve got a week at _least_.”

Lucy Salisbury rises and wanders off in search of her buttons, seeming exasperated by the both of us. We’re alone _now_. Or, alone in this room, anyway. I can still hear Penelope marching about in the kitchen, and Lucy rattling her sewing box.

“All that means is that you have misjudged the speed at which I read. Do you truly read that slowly?”

His scowl deepens. “I didn’t get a fancy education like you did, if that’s what you mean.” Dislike simmers in his eyes, and from the way his jaw tightens, I know I’ve struck a nerve.

I sneer at him. “Back to my imaginary fancy upbringing? I’m merely a soldier, good sir. If you don’t mind, this humble soldier would like the displeasure of accompanying you to the market alley where he might procure a pamphlet or two to sustain his intellect in a grievously dull household–”

“ _Fine_ ,” Snow bursts out, and I smirk at him. “Fine, I’ll get you a bloody book. Go to hell, Baz.”

He knows as well as I do that I’ve trapped him– he can’t very well take me to the market, wherever it is, so he has to concede. In conceding, he is confirming my suspicions that whatever he’s doing is secret, at least from me.

He stomps out the door, and I maintain my triumphant expression until I can no longer see his silhouette against the sunset-lit road. I’m no longer in the mood to read, which I would have wagered good money I would never say. I don’t think I could play the violin if I tried– how can I put my feelings into music when I don’t know what they are?

If I played my heart out right now, it would sound horrendous. Like discord, the opposite of melody or harmony or structure.

I don’t want to see the paper and I do, both in equal measures. I’m lucky the women are home, making it impossible for me to rummage about and making the decision for me. I’ll just have to wait, excruciatingly, for a chance I’m the only one home. I have doubts it’ll be any time soon.

The wait, however, isn’t as excruciating as I thought it would be. Because of Snow.

Everything is because of Snow.

We don’t fight physically, Snow and I, because of his idiotic sense of honour, but we spar verbally to no end, and the thrill of it is enough to occupy me for hours after, even though, technically speaking, he isn’t much of an opponent. It isn’t in his skill with debating that he has such appeal, but in his passion. 

Since Friday, he’s abandoned the pretence of not supporting the rebel’s cause and unleashes his ideas with a lack of restraint that blows me away. He drops no confessions of being in league or in the know, though I’m positive he is, but he’s stopped his half-arsed neutralist charades.

He talks halfway with expression alone, with emphatic gestures that have knocked over a vase of flowers more than once. Both times I watched and smirked, which seemed to infuriate him, as he scooped up the shards and wiped up the water without even cleaning up his cut hands, getting blood all over the cloth. I only did it to mask my concern– it was a lot of cuts– but I wouldn’t admit it if you threatened to set me on fire.

“It’s unfair,” he insists.

“What’s unfair?” 

I’ve got my book in my lap, the one Snow got me. He could’ve just _said_ he’d get me one, but apparently he’s very tied to his word. I think that’s stupid, and I don’t pretend otherwise. 

I also think it’s horrendously attractive, and I have to make a thorough effort to pretend otherwise every time I pick up the book. It’s a guilty sort of cross-class tragedy, I believe, though I’ve been careful not to let myself find out from anyone how it ends– for all I know the poor boy and the princes will have their happily ever after, however unrealistic that may be. 

“Use your words, Snow.” He hates it when I say that.

“The _monarchy_ ,” he says emphatically, “the _class system_. The _taxes_. They could at least let us have a say in the taxes.”

I tuck my ribbon between the pages– a month after he bought me the book, and I’m still only halfway through it. I can’t read with him right here, talking to me, and I’m savouring the book anyway. It’s probably the only thing I’ll ever get from Snow, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it last as long as I can. (Although I know I’ll just reread it when I’m done.)

“You’re just repeating what you’ve heard.” I lean back in Lucy’s rocking chair– he hates it when I sit in this chair, and I like to watch the way his jaw clenches and his eyes go to the folded quilt that usually sits in the chair until Lucy (or I) moves it to sit.

“They’re right,” Snow argues, “We didn’t even get a say in being taxed, and that’s not fair.”

“The world’s not fair.” I smirk at him and rock the chair again, watching him chew his lip. _Nothing is fair. Life isn’t fair. Your hair isn’t fair; your smile isn’t fair; the way you make me feel isn’t fair._

He frowns at me as if somehow there’s a correct answer I managed to miss. “So, what? Are we supposed to just give up trying to make things more fair?”

I look at him. Snow is a true storybook hero, loving, loved, and headstrong to the last. I don’t suppose giving up is even something he’s capable of. 

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa now, stretched out to let off as much heat as possible, in a scandalously sparse attire of a white button-down and trousers, no overgarments in sight. His head is propped up so he can properly look at me when he speaks to me, or when I speak to him. 

I imagine, stupidly, senselessly, that I would be brave enough– and he willing– to let me clamber on top of him and touch him like I’ve wanted for months. His head would drop back and his face would twist up, and I would worship him–

“Snow,” I say condescendingly, “You know as well as I that you owe your government taxes. I hardly think it’s unfair for them to ask that much of you.”

“We pay taxes to the _colonial government_. They act in _our_ best interests. The king? Not our government. We don’t owe him anything.”

“Watch that treasonous mouth of yours,” I say, half idly. I’m glad, suddenly, that the British are trying to hang as few people as possible for treason in order to stay in the public’s good graces. Otherwise, when Snow ran his mouth off, he’d wind up dead pretty quickly. “These are British colonies.” 

He sits up, legs spread, elbows propped on his knees. I try not to react to his sudden proximity. 

“Britain started you off.”

“Don’t–” He scrunches his eyebrows together, leaning forward. “Stop that. We don’t _owe_ them anything.” He says it as if the second time is going to bring a new meaning to the words. “We’re doing fine on our own.”

“Really? Last time I checked you were failing to effectively besiege Boston.”

“Because Britain won’t give it up.” He glowers, then brightens a bit– “though last I heard, Redcoats were suffering from the siege quite a bit.”

I twist up my face, pitching up my voice. “So what? Are we just supposed to give up?”

He groans and shoves his hand through his hair. Would that I was the one with his curls between my fingers. “Fuck off, Baz,” he says, flushed. I like that he calls me Baz, though I’ll never admit it, not until the world turns upside down. No one else calls me Baz, and it feels like a just-us sort of thing. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Britain isn’t just going to let you go.”

Snow looks away. “That’s what Penny says too.”

“She’s more intelligent than you,” I say, and his fingers flick at me reflexively. How much longer is he going to need that sling? Every time I see it, a fresh competition begins in my stomach between satisfaction and guilt. My guilt always wins, and then it takes a match with my composure, and loses. It’s exhausting.

“Well,” Snow says, and then sits back, stumped. “Yeah, she is, but she thinks the representation is horrid like I do. She just says Britain won’t go down without a fight.”

I shake my head at him. “I can’t believe you want a war over taxes. You’d put my father to shame.”

“I don’t want– I want a war for a government that _cares_ ,” Snow says, and means it too. I don’t know if he realizes that after the way, equality isn’t just going to fall into their collective laps. I’d bet my violin on the class system holding up, and Snow hates the class system. He’s hating on it right now: “It’s the noble families they care about, the rich ones, proprietors from the crown.”

The most painful thing about it is that Snow is so disgustingly good I think he’d rage against the class system even if he was _in_ one of the noble families.

“–And who’s your father?”

“No one you know,” I say immediately, and struggle to relax my tone. “Not that I know of in any case. You’re disgustingly social.” He doesn’t seem to buy it, mostly, I assume, because he’s already made up his mind that I’m harbouring a sinister socio-economic class secret (which I suppose isn’t all wrong) and an evil plot to kill him (which, if anything, would be a reluctant side effect of my inevitable success in finding his papers.)

“You’re sure on that?” 

“Yes,” I say dryly, “I know who my father is.”

He presses on, “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m sure I know who my father is.”

“No, about that I don’t know your father. Have I heard of him, then? Who’s the nobility in the area?”

“Niall Pitch,” I say off the top of my head, and I miss Niall all over again. “Have you heard of _him?_ ” I miss my family, the large house. I loved the rose garden. 

Snow doesn’t have anything to say to that– I know he still doesn’t believe me. His curls fall across his forehead as he tips his head forward and stands with an aggressive “Hmph,” and a glare.

He walks past me, the fabric of his pants brushing my hand where I’ve laid it on the arm of the rocking chair, and I’m drunk on his proximity for half a second. I’m always drunk on him, a little bit. I watch him struggle, naked from the waist up, into a shirt every morning. 

Sharing a room with the person you love most is like sharing a room with an open fire. He’s constantly drawing me in, even though I know, every morning when I wake up and look at his soft mouth, the loose limbs in his cot, that this will end in flames.

I stare at the ceiling in the middle of the night, trying not to look at his sleeping form, thinking about what I’ll do when I find it. What that will mean for me, for both of us. That it could mean nothing, but I’m too selfish to let it mean nothing.

He cares so much about this war, and I’m on the other side of it. I’m Hugh Percy’s _son_. I could turn a bit of information in, ring a bell, bring a dozen soldiers to take Snow to the gallows. My family stands against everything Snow wants.

And dear God, does Snow want it. He’s so impossibly passionate and sure-footed on what he believes, and me? 

I’ve got no idea what I want.

I want to keep him safe, but I want to go back to England. I want to stay away from whatever paper he’s making sure to hide, but I don’t want to… finalize that path, I suppose. I have _no idea_ what I want.

Except him.

I want him. Ever since the first moment I saw him in the street I wanted him. I think I always will.

I roll over on my side, giving into the urge to look at the spill of curls over his forehead. In the dark, under his cot, I can see the white, moonlit corner of a box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying folks. I'm trying.


	6. Will you read it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plenty happens, and yet nothing changes... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the heartbreaking chapter title. Truly sorry.

**SIMON**

Mr. Salisbury has been on my case to get back into the fight as soon as I can. I keep telling him I _want to_ , because I do. I _really_ do, but I have a broken arm, and I can’t even cart around printer’s pamphlets anymore. My box of savings hasn’t gotten any more than a couple pennies in the past four months.

Baz hasn’t stopped taking the piss about my arm either, and Penny tells me patiently that my arm should be good as new by the end of September, for sure. 

“You don’t even keep it in a sling anymore,” she says, looking disapprovingly at my arm, stiff at my side. She’s the one with the medical knowledge, though, and earlier she did tell me my arm would start feeling much better around now.

“It’s only a few weeks ‘till the end of September,” I say, “And it’s getting better.” 

She sighs, but doesn’t say anything, so I guess that means it’s alright. Mrs. Salisbury hasn’t said anything on it either, and though she isn’t much of a talker, if I ought to have my arm in a sling still, she’d nag me fit to put Penny to shame. 

“Is it?” Baz says from the rocking chair– Mrs. Salisbury is off at some event with Mr. Salisbury. Which doesn’t make it any less annoying that Baz is in her chair again. “I suppose I ought to break it for you again?’

He stands, and Penny says, “Don’t you _dare_ ,” at the same time I say, “You can’t even _fight_ ,” and try not to flinch at his words anyway. 

I dunno if he’d be able to break my arm again, but I’m not eager to find out. I haven’t held a musket in months, and I miss it like a second limb. I miss the guys on the field and discrete target practices.

“I broke your arm once, didn’t I?’

I’m about to go at him– I’ve one good arm, anyway– but Penny grabs me by the elbow (left elbow, thankfully) and pulls me away firmly.

“Pen!”

“Si! He’s trying to wind you up, that’s all.” I _know_ that, but he’s smirking at me, and– “Let me take you to market.”

I haven’t been to market in bloody _forever_. “Market?” My stomach growls and Baz laughs unkindly from the rocking chair. His hair is down and his ankles are crossed and everything. Like he owns the place. I scowl at him and clench my fist again. 

“We’ll get you a pie,” Penny promises me.

I turn away from Baz. “They haven’t much meat these days.”

She taps my shoulder in a way that I know means _stay here_ and bustles off to the kitchen.

“You’re a menace, Snow,” Baz says as I listen to her rummage about. “Bribed with food again?”

I’m about to tell him _no_ and also _fuck off, you arse_ , but Penny returns with half a stale gingerbread cookie.

“ _Yes_ ,” I say emphatically, and eat it in two bites. “And yes, I’ll go to the market.”

I _am_ hungry. And I feel as if I’ve been locked away forever. Penny helps me into a thin coat and I can _feel_ Baz’s eyes tickling between my shoulder blades. I know he’s laughing at me, and the way I need five whole seconds for my right arm. I don’t care. I’m hungry.

He watches us until we’re out the door.

“It’s very nice out here.” Breathe in and out. It smells like horse shit here, and human waste, but the open air feels good.

“It’s September,” Penny says. 

She likes September because it cools a bit, but it doesn’t go cold and she gets to dye things for when we start selling mittens and muffins and things later in the fall. I wonder if she’ll give herself red hair again– it’s fading– or if she’ll go back to purple, or something else. 

I prefer later in the year– September’s still too hot for me. Baz is always about wearing nice shirts, and light coats, a waistcoat, as if he can’t be bothered to keep up the charade of a British soldier when it comes to clothes.

“It’s a nice September.”

Penny shoves at my left shoulder, lightly. “Stop acting like you’ve been locked in for months. You’ve gone out.”

“A bit.” It feels nice, though, to go out and see people other than the printer and his son. Micah’s a fine bloke, really, he is, but he’s much better with letters and words and things. I usually feel useless around him, but with my broken arm, it’s even worse. Which isn’t his fault– it isn’t as if it’s up to him to teach me to read or switch letters or whatnot. 

I grin at Penny. “Haven’t had a market pie in ages, though.”

She laughs fondly and tugs me along. “There’s joy in life besides food, Simon.”

“I know that,” I say indignantly. I _do_ know that. I was just harping on about the fresh air, after all. “It’s just, right now, _today_ , and at this hour it’s the most… relevant joy.”

And it is. We’ve reached the market.

There are fewer things in the stalls now– there is less food and living supplies. I’ve heard hay is really scarce, even for the British horses. This is why Penny has been out so much lately.

I buy Boston tea and more flour and a sack of potatoes. Penny pays nearly twice the price for a collection of spices– the last of that stall’s supply. 

“Come on,” I say, when we’ve bought everything we can, “They won’t even _have_ any pies left by the time we get there.” I look back at her, where she’s chatting with–

“Micah!” I grin. “Hullo.”

Micah doesn’t grin. Penny isn’t smiling. Penny’s _always_ smiling when she talks to Micah. 

Even though women aren’t really taught to read (or really educated at all, because for some reason no one has figured out yet that they’re a lot smarter than men) Penny taught herself to read, and I’m dead jealous of it. 

She likes to talk books with Micah, and when they run into each other their discussions usually are really entertaining, even if I have no idea what they’re talking about or what they mean.

I bet Baz would love to join them if he wasn’t so superior and all. I wonder what the book I brought him was about– he’s taking a bloody long time to read it. I’ll ask him when we get back, though he’s sure to answer me in a riddle.

“What is it?” I ask Micah, who looks both guilty and determined. If they’re not talking about books right now, something’s up.

“He’s moving off,” Penny tells me, because Micah doesn’t respond. “To Britain.”

I frown. I can’t imagine Micah over in Britain, talking to some British version of Penny about books. “You can be a good spy right here in Boston, I tell you. Get into General Hugh Percy’s letters or something and you’ll be set for helping us out, I reckon.”

“Not to spy,” Micah says.

“He’s just,” Penny looks hard at Micah, and Micah flushes. “Going to Britain.”

“It’s getting thick here,” Micah says, “The siege isn’t working, and the soldiers– it’s like being caught in a storm.”

He’s not even got a soldier in his own house, and we have a posh bloke masquerading as a soldier in ours, who’s always mucking up my day and reminding me of all the things he can do and I can’t and _Micah_ ’s in the thick of it? Really?

And no, the siege isn’t working– _yet._ But General Thomas is answering directly to Washington now, and even though I can’t help out, Shepard’s notes have told me that the men have been hauling around weaponry, getting ready for the final step in rooting out the Redcoats for good. Washington has his sights set on Dorchester Heights– high up and just outside of Boston, the best position we could ask for.

I don’t say it. We’re in the middle of a crowded market– few Loyalists in this area, but still. Micah prints _Patriot Papers._ He knows this.

“You want out,” I clarify, just to be sure.

“I can’t even get cheese unless I’m willing to shove my way through the market at the moment the stalls open.” He says this with exasperation, as if Boston’s a young, spoiled child who’s been acting up. “Even Miss Ebeneza is out.”

I think of Miss Ebeneza, with her hands and pockets full of coins, the way she is at the end of every market, still sniffing and smoothing out her apron.

“I understand,” Penny says finally, though I know she disagrees, and clasps Micah’s hand respectfully.

“I don’t.”

Neither of them care to explain it to me.

“You can have the books we don’t manage to sell by the end of October,” Micah says, as if this makes up for his leaving, somehow. 

I can barely read. I’m thinking Baz might like to read them, and I should probably _not_ take the books, just because of that. But there’s no satisfaction in thwarting Baz’s happiness if Baz doesn’t _know_ I’ve thwarted his happiness. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Penny has already accepted.

“You can practice reading,” Micah offers. He does look sorry. 

“Yeah.” I nod along, and then burst out with, “you didn’t expect the fight to be _easy_ , did you?”

Micah frowns. His brown skin shines with perspiration and his jaw is roughly shaven. I realize how unhappy he looks. “The revolution is _your_ life, Simon. It isn’t mine.”

I open my mouth to say something– I don’t know what, exactly– but Penny grips my arm again. “Let’s get you that pie.”

We turn away. “They’re probably out by now,” I grumble. We’ve been blocking the flow of people, but I only notice now that we’re a clear bit away from Micah and his books. 

“I’m upset too.”

I look at Penny. She _does_ seem upset. Micah’s a good friend– not that Penny wouldn’t also be upset about Micah abandoning the movement, but he really does do for Penny what I can’t– provide intelligent conversation about books. It’s not that I can’t engage with ideas, but I’m so bad with my words, and I’m not well-read like Micah is.

I’ll miss him.

Micah feels trapped here, and it isn’t as if I haven’t been dreaming of my own life forever. I just think to live a free life, we need Britain off our backs first.

I huff and pull Penny back around. I know she’s smiling as we shove our way back through the crush of people, bumping into them and sending needles of pain up my arm.

We find Micah still frowning in front of a newspaper stand, where he’s dumping pamphlets and things he probably won’t need overseas from a sack on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry you’re leaving,” I say, and I mean it.

Micah smiles bittersweetly, and now I’m sad, too. “So am I.”

Penny watches this, tugging her bonnet and grinning. “Promise you’ll write,” she demands, and Micah does. “Where will we get our prints now?”

“Shepard,” Micah murmured, quiet enough that among the shouting stall salesmen and the chattering people stepping loudly over cobblestones, only we can hear him. “He’ll do you good.”

“Shepard?” Penny adopts the low volume.

I look at her. “Never met?” It’s strange to think about– they both matter to me quite a lot, but I suppose they don’t know each other, do they?

She shakes her head.

“I’ll take you some time,” I promise.

“You take care of yourselves.” Micah smiles brighter, and claps me on the shoulder. “Send Mr. Salisbury for the books.”

“You too.” This is a much better goodbye. “I will.”

When we get back, I look about to see if Mr. Salisbury has returned yet– they’re due back from the event soon– but I don’t see him. I’ll tell him when he gets back that Micah’s off. He’ll be upset about it, but I understand, I think– he’ll have to find someone new to send his writings to. Possibly Shepard, like Micah said. Afterall, Shepard is as smart as they come, and he’s always got ink-black fingertips; he must work a print shop somewhere. 

Baz isn’t anywhere I look either, so I go to my room to put away the change I kept since the meat pies were, in fact, sold out by the time we arrived at the stall.

He’s there.

Of course he’s there.

He stands, smoothly but quickly, when I reach the doorway, but I think he was kneeling by my cot.

My stomach drops. 

Cold. Straight to my feet. All the bittersweet warmth from the goodbye with Micah has left me in a breath.

It takes me a long moment to pull words up to my mouth. “Were you just going through my things?” My voice isn’t as cool as I want it to be– it’s angry and shaky. If he hadn’t been, he sure knows to now.

“No,” he says, as calm as I wish I could’ve been just then. “Why would I look through your things?”

“Because you’re a spy,” I accuse, and his lip curls, derisive and triumphant all at once. I realize this implies there’s something of political interest beneath my bed and want to slap myself. “And because you’re an arsehole,” I amend belatedly. It comes out convincingly hateful enough. I really do hate him. 

Was he going through my stuff? He must have been. I really _do_ hate him, I think, looking at the way he stands, relaxed and graceful like I didn’t just accuse him of being a spy.

“I highly doubt you’re someone who qualifies to possess information any spy would consider worth pursuing,” Baz sneers.

I nearly object that I _do_ get _plenty_ of letters, _thank you_ , and I clap my mouth shut, hard.

Baz looks as if he’s on the edge of laughing at me, the unkind laugh he gives me all the time. Have I ever heard him laugh genuinely? I remember his lighthearted laugh when I said Penny hadn’t broken my heart… it was a nice laugh.

I scowl at him– the drawers are a bit open too– and scowl harder. “Stay out of my stuff.” I shut the drawer. “And stay out of my pants.”

He goes bright red.

I think I might consider cutting off my tongue. “I meant my clothes– my– the drawers, I meant the–” I point. “The– don’t go through my clothes.”

“Thank you, Snow, for that clarification.” His face is still flushed, but he has regained his composure nearly instantly. 

_I can’t stand him_. He doesn’t even look disturbed anymore, even though he was the one pawing through my clothes. I swear, I can’t believe I have to deal with him, and I’ve had months to get used to it. 

Baz plays violin until suppertime, which makes it harder to forget that he’s there, but he does it in my room, on my bed, both of which are technically his, too, now.

He never plays in his room. I know he’s only doing it to tick me off, since I can’t bloody get my mind off the note I stuffed in the box earlier, though Mr. Salisbury’s papers are already delivered. But the one I got from Shepard with the locations of the relocated artillery…

“Penny,” I say, joining her in the kitchen. 

She looks at me and shakes her head. “We need to put a limit on how much you’re allowed to talk about Baz.” She has taken to calling him “Baz” too, probably because I use it. Honestly, I think she’s heard me talk about Baz more than she’s spoken to Baz himself.

Mostly because I don’t think she understands how much bad Baz is capable of causing.

“He went through my letters,” I protest, “I’m allowed to talk about it.” 

She stops moving to look at me, finally giving me a bit of consideration, though her hands continue to mix the wheat-flour bread she’s making. She’ll want me to knead it soon, so I know she won’t kick me out of the kitchen for talking about Baz, which she’s done before.

The violin continues, the notes long and mournful.

Penny adds more water and mixes. “I hope you didn’t leave anything lying about.”

I wince.

Her eyes go wide. “ _Simon_ ,” she hisses, “What did you leave about? What was it? Who was it from?”

“General Thomas,” I whisper.

“ _John Thomas?_ ” she whisper-screams, and I flinch. If looks could kill… “Simon, you didn’t!”

“I couldn’t strike a match!”

Penny shoves the bowl at me with much more force than is necessary, and chops potatoes into bite-sized pieces with ferocious speed. I’m immeasurably relieved she has something other than me to take it out on.

“Maybe he didn’t find it?” I begin to knead, which is difficult with one hand, but I make do. After this, my right will be painfully weak, and my left stronger than ever. It’ll take me a long time to find my footing in the field with a musket again.

“ _Now_ you think maybe he’s not so bad?” I can barely hear her low voice over the clop-clop of her knife against the board. 

“Not that he’s not so bad,” I object, “of course he’s bad. He’s _evil_ , I swear. But maybe he tried and couldn’t–”

“What are you two whispering about?” Baz’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. He smirks in a way that tells us he knows _exactly_ what we’re talking about. He found it. From his face, I know he did. But I can’t _believe_ it until I see it for myself. Just in case.

Penny is the one who answers, because I’m too busy gaping at Baz. We shouldn’t have been talking in the kitchen. He couldn’t have heard us from there, but still. _I have to be more careful,_ I think, and then, _if it isn’t too late._

“Sweet nothings,” Penny lies, looking alarmed the moment it’s out of her mouth. “Isn’t that right, Simon, dearest?”

I can’t believe I have to play along with _this_. Anything else would’ve been better. “That’s- er- that’s right, Penny darling.”

It isn’t as if he doesn’t know. At this point, all three of us are putting on a strange stage play where we all pretend we don’t all know that Baz has found patriot intelligence under my bed. 

What am I going to do now? I don’t know.

Wait, I suppose.

I’ll wait for the minute he sets foot out of this house, and then I will check the box under my cot. Just to be sure. 

Did he find the money I stored there? Christ, I hope not. I’ve been saving for years. I _know_ the wanker doesn’t even need money– I’m positive he’s from a disgustingly wealthy, Loyalist noble family, from the way he eats, reads, and _plays_ _violin_ , not to mention the way he dresses and smooths his shirt, but I wouldn’t put it past him to take all the money I stored up there simply to tick me off.

Penny has to stop me from kneading the dough too long– “No, not _too much_ , you can stop now– please stop now–” because I’ve punched it enough, she says.

And then I’m pacing about, waiting for supper time and brushing off my clothes even though I’ve already gotten all the flour off them. 

And then I pace some more.

Baz smirks at me from Mrs. Salisbury’s chair.

“You’re rather on edge.” Baz tips his chin at me. I growl at him, and he blinks, mouth twisting. “Impatient?”

 _For you to leave_. “When do you reckon Mr. Salisbury will get back?” I sit on a wooden chair and try to stop moving about.

He smirks like he knows what I’m thinking. Maybe he does. “Any minute now. And you’re impatient for supper, I presume.”

“Sure you do,” I huff, and he rolls his eyes at me, a sneer on his face, and takes out his book. He’s got a bright red ribbon marking his place, and it’s stayed pretty near the end of the book for a long while now.

“Are you ever going to finish that book?” I ask. If my mind won’t leave me at peace, I’ll be damned if I let Baz have a nice little reading time. 

He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “I do seem to be reading, don’t I?”

“You’ve had it for ages.”

“I’m flattered that you take such interests in my reading habits.”

He’s stroking the spine. _He’s stroking the spine_. Absently, his long fingers going down it with almost a tenderness. His fingers flutter down the thick leather binding. I can’t read the title– I can’t read sideways anyhow, but his fingers are in the way.

“What’s it about?”

Surprise registers on his face for a moment, but he glances down at the book in his hands and stops petting it. “It’s a bit of a fairytale,” he says slowly, as if he’s sorting out his thoughts before he speaks. “It’s the poor hero and the lovely princess. A bit of a hackneyed story, if you ask me, but at this point I’m fairly certain it ends in tragedy. At the very least, it’s got that going for it.” 

Why? If I ever read a book like that, I think I’d want them to have a happily ever after. “You like that?”

“I love it.” He looks like he means it, too, smiling half bitterly and stroking the spine. Again.

“Why?”

He shrugs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz shrug before– I’d remember if I did. I’d remember because I’ve never seen anyone shrug so fluidly, so smoothly, _uncaring_ rather than _unknowing._

I just look at him: the elegance of his bone structure from the lines of his face (except where his nose goes a bit crooked because of that punch) to the bend of his fingers, the darkness of him in his sharp brows and the swoop of his hair brushing his shoulders to his scowl and sneer, the shocking clarity of his grey eyes. He draws my eyes like a magnet so infallibly it’s almost ominous.

He takes my silence for waiting, I think, because he taps the cover lightly with a fingertip, his nail making a muffled sort of click against it. “Because we match.”

I snort, and he looks up. “You? And a love story about a poor hero and a rich princess? How are you a tragedy?”

Baz scowls at me.

I hold out my hand to him. “I’ll read it. I bet you’re the princess, if you’re anyone. Lounging around with piles of gold.”

“You’ll take ages.”

I stand up and sit myself across from him. It feels a bit pointless, since across from him is just moving my chair a couple feet, but he looks at the legs of the chair dragging loudly across the floor and then at me, surprise in his eyes. 

“So read it to me,” I say. I refuse to leave him alone. 

I wonder if the note is in his pocket, and whether I could get it from him if I got close enough. (Who am I kidding– that only happens in stories.) Somehow, keeping him occupied with me makes me feel safer, though– he can’t possibly do anything with General Thomas’ letter while I’m watching him.

I don’t actually expect him to read to me.

But he does.

He looks at me a moment, and then, still looking at me, very deliberately opens to the title page, and then the next, full of numbers and names, and then looks down the first page.

“ _Once upon a time is the oddest phrase,_ ” he reads out, _“because it implies that some stories take place within a time absent-realm which none have yet stumbled upon at the time I have sat down to write you this story.”_

His reading voice is so different from his speaking voice. It’s a touch smoother, miles friendlier. It sounds like a sweet song, or a melody happier than any Baz has ever played on his violin. 

He sounds, I think, like a fairy tale.

And I feel like a trapped princess, waiting for the inevitable arrival of the witch.


	7. Indecicive from crisis to crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the boys are the softest when they are at the greatest odds with each other. (Don't ask me why.)

**BAZ**

Snow waits for me to be out of the house before he asks Mr. Salisbury whatever he’s going to ask.

I doubt he’ll get anything useful out of the man– that man is all talk, no walk. _I_ don’t even know what to do now. 

I have the note in my pocket. 

Snow checked under his bed yesterday, noticed it was gone, and accused me of taking it, which maybe was the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and it’s a long list. There’s nothing quite like asking after a note to confirm you are indeed the receiver of it and that it is very important to you.

I pull on my soldier’s coat now, going out again. Snow hovers by David Salisbury as I button up. I don’t know who he’s trying to fool anymore– I know he knows I know… and on and on and on. I know we’re both aware of everything that’s going on.

And I’m sure he’s convinced I’m not actually going to train or whatnot– he’d be right– and I can _see_ him losing it as I throw him a look over my shoulder– he’s gone red, and his hands are clenched. If he shoved me up against the wall the way he did before he found out I couldn’t fight, I think my knees would give out.

I close the door behind me.

Snow’s arm is finally fully healed and he has gone back to his normal moving-around-and-carrying-things self. It isn’t uncommon to find him lifting and setting heavy things with his right arm, clenching that fist, doing it again, frowning at himself, doing it again, sweat beading at his brow. 

I hate him for it– perhaps I’m driving him to the edge with the letter I’ve got tucked in my pocket, marked _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy, found among the possessions of Simon of the Salisbury household_ , _September 20th, 1775_ , but _he_ is driving _me_ mental with his weight lifting and his sweat-soaked white shirts, fierce and determined. 

I have to possess something that could get him killed to make him lose his mind; all _he_ has to do is exist.

Life isn’t fair.

The sentiment of “life isn’t fair” is echoed in painfully different terms as I find a Loyalist tavern full of fat, chattering men and young soldiers in red coats gulping ale and switch out my own red coat for the one in my bag– a tailored waistcoat, then an overcoat– then tie my hair back at the base of my neck and get in the coach around the corner.

We clatter through the markets, common people stepping out of our way as our sleek horse clops through. The common people gossip like there’s no tomorrow, selling bread three days old at the top of their lungs, bragging about no mold on their fruits. The air smells like dirt, tea bags, meat and bread, nuts and coals.

Father’s house smells like flowers. They serve British tea and little sandwiches made with fresh bread, and a plate of sliced fresh fruit.

It reminds me of home: the plenty we had because of our family’s class, the fragrance of the gardens and the large rooms with soaring ceilings. For the first time, missing it is mixed with the bittersweet knowledge that there are so many people who’d give anything for a fraction of the privilege I have. My _mother_ was a _slave_ , and my skin tone is _barely_ passing, and this is the first time I’ve felt this way– truly felt it in my heart. 

My stomach turns and I nibble at the abundant food that I couldn’t want less. I make myself sick.

It isn’t that don’t I hate living with common folk– I _do_ , they’re so loud and needlessly fussy, so unorganized and bright-eyed and handsome and passionate and rude and beautiful– but I can see what Snow means. About it not being fair.

How I sit down to this, and Snow, right now, is dining on cabbage soup, or stale bread with precious bits of ham and cheese. Not that Snow minds– I’m almost certain he doesn’t, and furthermore, I’m certain he wouldn’t savour and appreciate good food for what it’s worth– he’d probably devour it like he does everything else.

Even so, I can see how our life can give commoners an acute sense of injustice: they see it, they want it, and they can never have it.

Though obviously not in the same way, I know what that feels like. 

A servant whispers something in Father’s ear, and Father raises a disinterested eyebrow. “From her? Set it on my desk; I’ll have a look later.”

He waves the servant off. I watch him walk briskly away, trying to catch a glimpse of the letter. I wonder who it’s from..

“Have you anything to tell me?” Father peers over a drinking glass full of ale, ignoring the teacup on the saucer before him. He barely has a few inches on me, but he looks as if I’m miles below him, still the little boy he raised after raping my mother, and her following death.

Now, with his gaze cast down on me, Snow’s note burning a hole in my pocket, and Snow’s hateful stare burning a hole in my heart, I don’t think I’ve ever detested him more.

I can’t say “nothing.”

I can’t believe I happened upon real material, an incriminating piece of evidence only a week before our meeting. That it’s likely Lexington and Concord’s relocated arms– with how poor the patriots are, taking those weapons could be a big enough thing to send me home.

I can’t believe anything. I can’t believe I tell him Snow goes out every Friday, as if that’s all I know. (It’s Friday today, I realize. I’m not sure whether to laugh at the situation I’ve gotten myself into.)

I can’t believe I’ve fallen so desperately in love that I don’t reach into my pocket for my ticket back to England. 

“Time is ticking on that clock,” my father says. He makes a show of checking his watch. “It isn’t long until the end of the year.”

I can’t believe Snow doesn’t think I’m a tragedy.

Snow shoves me up against the wall when I return home, my red coat back on and my hair untied again. My knees _do_ give out, just a little. He’s warm and pressed against me in several places, and my heart is beating out of my chest wildly. 

His eyes are so blue. His moles are so close. I could kiss them.

I can feel the heat of him where his hands press to my shoulders. Would that he was shoving me up against walls for a different reason.

“What did you do?”

Does he actually hope I’ll tell him? I just lied my afternoon away to protect his skin and he doesn’t even know it. I’ve never felt so hopeless. He’s never felt so close. There’s fury in his eyes.

“I told you,” I say coolly, “Fighting practice. Field practice.” 

He scowls. He’s _so close_. 

“You ought to know,” I add, unable to help it.

He pushes me harder, like he wants to bang me against the wall again, only I’m already against the wall. Who knew being against the wall would be such an incredibly stimulating thing for me? I need to stop thinking about it.

“Simon doesn’t fight,” Lucy Salisbury says from her chair. She seems to believe it.

I raise an eyebrow at Snow, and one look at his face tells me she doesn’t know about him. She thinks he’s just a mouth with words like her husband. I feel a pang in my heart for her. She’s got a big surprise coming.

“Yeah,” Snow says, entirely unconvincingly, “I don’t fight.” 

I laugh and he shoves me _again_. He seems to be enjoying having two arms again. He doesn’t need to heft about flour sacks and wood; he’s plenty strong already. 

“But I’ll fight you, Baz, I swear it–”

“Please take your hands off Basilton,” Lucy Salisbury sighs. I flush at the wording of it.

Snow looks at her. He hates me, but he positively worships his adoptive mother. (She’s basically his mother. Sometimes she’ll even go over when he’s copying, push his curls back, and kiss him on the forehead, calling him her “rosebud boy.”) He releases me violently.

“I wouldn’t have,” he mutters, “Just, he’ll get us all killed. I _wouldn’t have_ ; he can’t fight.”

I’m indignant, _and_ touched _and_ embarrassed _and_ hot and bothered. I need a bloody drink.

I fetch myself a glass of water and amend that thought– I don’t need a drink, I just need a bit of peace.

Snow follows me to fetch the water.

“What did you _do_?”

“What do you expect me to say?” I sit, making sure to take my time, and take a slow sip. The more unperturbed I act, the angrier he gets.

“Wha– I just– you went– what’s going to happen?” 

_If I’d actually done it, your hanging is likely what would happen._

Usually, I enjoy Snow’s blusters– Snow can bluster like nobody else– but now my heart twists at his words. He really does think I’ve sold them all out.

I don’t even know what to say to him now. I can’t tell him _don’t worry, I didn’t do anything._ Heaven knows where a statement like that would get me.

Somewhere down the street, someone’s supper bell rings and he blinks. It’s early for supper, but not that early. The sun is setting, and through the window, the shadows are long and thin on the dirt road.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Don’t tell me. I’m off to market to–”

My heart stops. “Don’t go to market,” I say. “We have everything we need here.”

He furrows his eyebrows, frowning at me. “We’re out of… cheese.”

“I’ll get some from Miss Ebeneza tomorrow,” I say quickly, “You like goat cheese better.”

He’s still staring at me, and I know he is weighing whether to figure me out, or just go to market. I can see him shifting, ready to leave.

 _I can’t let him go._

There’s a tiny chance they’ll raid the market today– of course, that chance is miniscule; I’ve _just_ relayed the information. But still.

I just. Reach out. Clasp his shoulder for a moment. He shakes me off, comically angry and confused.

“I’ll… read to you,” I say decisively. 

As if that’ll make things better. 

Who knows– it might. Snow seems to cope with not knowing what I’ve done by trying to make sure everything I do involves him, a sort of incredibly aggressive way of keeping tabs on me.

And I also know that Simon Snow is obsessed with my reading voice. He thinks that I don’t notice, but I do. I notice everything about him: his messy covers, his wild curls, his difficulty with words, his uncivilized eating, the shape of his mouth, the money he stores under his bed, his endless yearning to make something of himself and build a life all his own, the size of his heart.

He blinks at me. We’ve never actually said “let’s go read together.” I just sit, and open the book, and Snow sits across from me. Then I start reading out loud. I’ve never made it a _thing_.

I wait, trying to look as if I’m bored out of my mind instead of listening to the cadence of his breath for the intake that precedes his response.

Snow wrinkles his forehead at me, his eyes still fixed on me suspiciously. They occasionally flick to my pockets. “What are you _doing_?”

I don’t know. Trying to put the note in my pocket out of my thoughts. I’ll move it to my coat, at least, I think. So it’s out of sight, out of mind. It’s my ticket home and I’m never going to use it, but I’m not sure I want to let it go just yet. 

I don’t want to make anything final.

But I also can’t let him get hurt.

He missed half a dozen Fridays while I was staying with them, at least. Whatever correspondence he gets there– I’d bet anything that’s where the letter I have burning a hole in my pocket ( _still_ ) came from– he can miss a couple weeks of it. Or a couple months. Or forever. Please, God, forever.

I say, “Catching you up. So I can finish the book.”

Right now, there’s no way the hero and his princess will get their happy ending. I want to finish it anyway, and wallow in _that_ sadness instead of mine. But wanting to finish the book is a lie– reading with Snow destroys me in the best of ways.

Where Snow is, our hero (John, because the author hasn’t an ounce of creativity, as demonstrated by his questing-after-a-princess plot) has barely seen the princess. She rode by in a carriage and was so beautiful he couldn’t take his mind off of her. He has no idea she’s a princess.

The princess isn’t staying in a royal castle, but instead, the sprawling estate of an earl whose son she’s meant to marry in a few months’ time, and the earl already sounds a great deal nicer than my Father. Earl Percy…

Snow gets a tender look in his eyes when the hero pines pathetically, and a dreamy one when the princess describes her rosebushes, her own room. His expression gets downright longing when she mentions feasting on a morning meal fit for the king.

“Scones?”

“Yes, Snow, that is what it says. It’s not an uncommon breakfast item, or dinner. Often served with tea? Ring any bells?”

He frowns at me, his bare feet up on his cot and his back against the wall, shifting often because the cot is really rather thin. I imagine inviting him into my bed. I tuck the thought away for daydreaming about while Snow swoons over sour-cherry scones.

“Maybe common in the family _you’re_ from,” he grumbles, “ _We_ can’t afford to buy _sour cherries_ for _breakfast scones._ ”

“English citizens are actually taxed more heavily than the colonial citizens.” Where would I find sour cherries? Hypothetically, if I wished to make sour-cherry scones. Which I’d never do, because I don’t even know how to bake, or even how to use a wood oven. (I suppose I could learn.)

“I was talking about _you_ ; you’re obviously from a rich Loyalist family,” Snow clarifies, “and anyway, at least the British citizens got to vote for it.”

“You’d rather have more say and more taxes?”

“I’d rather answer to myself rather than a crazy man across the sea.” He shifts again, and crosses his legs. I can see the knobs of his ankles because he hasn’t got on any stockings. Is it normal to be captivated by the knob of someone’s ankle or is that only further proof that I’m disturbed? I don’t know, but I reckon it’s the latter.

“He isn’t crazy.” He is. 

Snow opens his mouth, but I hold up a finger. 

“Even if he was, an idea which I’m willing to temporarily entertain for the sake of an argument, I call pot-kettle.”

“ _Pot-kettle_? We’re not _crazy._ ” 

I raise an eyebrow, knowing he expects me to speak, and look at him as if I won’t even dignify that fallacy with a response. 

“Tell me why we’re crazy,” he demands after a beat.

“Three words: Boston Tea Party.”

“Tea party isn’t two words, is it?”

“It is.”

“Oh.” Simon sighs, probably thinking about tea and biscuits. “ _Wait_ , we weren’t– I mean, that wasn’t crazy. The Boston Tea Party I mean.”

“What good does throwing thousands of pounds of tea overboard do?”

“It makes a point,” Snow says immediately, “It wasn’t crazy. The British merchants and companies are favoured over colonial ones because of the– the king’s– and Parliament’s policies. He doesn’t let us _do_ anything except make him money. We– they were upset.”

“You participated, then?” I tip my head at him speculatively, as if I’m imagining him. Which I am. But I hope to give the impression that I’m picturing him in tar with feathers about him, but I’m just imagining him putting out his legs again and possibly the bottom hems of his trousers riding up to show the knob of his other ankle.

The Boston Tea Party. It’s not surprising to me, but it gives me another jolt, knowing it’s another thing I can add to the very long list of things Snow could’ve gotten caught for. Could still get caught for, even.

“No,” Snow says so quickly, I know he’s lying. 

He knows too, and he scowls at me, but he’s pale. I can tell he’s still thinking about the letter, and how I obviously visited my contact today. How could he not? He thinks I’m trying to get him _hung_ , and he _knows_ that if that’s the case, there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“I’m not giving you a verbal confirmation, if that’s what you’re after.”

I wonder if the fact that he thinks I wouldn’t just _lie_ about getting a confession is swoon-worthy. I decide it isn’t, but my heart’s not with the program, it seems.

“I should’ve known.” I shake my head at him. “How uncivilized. Just up your alley.”

“It wasn’t actually a big–” he waves his hands– “You know.”

“Not really. Waste of tea? Yes, it was.”

“No! Like, a– Like a riot!” He jabs at the air a bit with loose hands. “Fighting and the like. None of that.” He sounds almost disappointed about it. “We even replaced the locks we broke. It was just about the tea.”

He looks at my hands, and I realize I’ve been lightly stroking the spine of the book– I’ve closed the book, but I’m still holding it. My red ribbon marks where Snow and I are at the moment, and a scrap of paper marks where I am on my own, where I haven’t made any progress– I haven’t wanted to. I want to read the tragic ending with Snow, because I’m pathetic.

I set the book aside. “No, it was about how your leaders don’t get to smuggle anymore.”

His eyes go fiery again. “That’s not the _point_.”

“It is to them.”

“Well it’s not to a lot of us. It’s not about money, it’s about– it’s like we’re not treated like we matter!” He shoves a hand through his hair. “We don’t get to choose for ourselves. Do you know how many manufacturing operations we’re not allowed to do because we’re meant to only trade with England, and only at their prices, and only the raw materials they want so they can get rich off of us?”

“ _You_ don’t get to choose for yourselves?” I repeat with more venom than I mean to. “What about _slaves_ , Snow? How many of the people working the southern colonies’ farms are slaves? They don’t get to choose a bloody thing, or live their own lives– they don’t even get to say yes or no when it matters most!”

Snow stares at me like I’m someone else altogether. 

“Don’t pretend your life doesn’t have freedom,” I say coldly, because Snow isn’t saying a word.

“Baz.” He’s studying my face. “I don’t support slavery.” He’s looking at me… in a way that makes my heart race. “Are you a bastard?”

Ha. My stomach curdles. I hate that word, but I hate what it means. Because to _me_ , it means I’m not pale enough to go on living the way I do. That I’m incredibly lucky to be this light-skinned but not lucky _enough_. And I feel guilty about, this incredible privilege I have, but how could I _not_ live in it? How could I turn about and say, “ _I’m the illegitimate child of a slave.”_?

“Are you trying to get me to insult myself?” I sneer, but it’s shaky. “Snow, please, you can call me a bastard all you want, but even someone with as little intellect as you should know I’m not going to call _myself_ a bastard.”

“No, I mean.” He knows I know what he means. “Are you– did a slave– you know, _are you_?” He looks up at me– usually, I’ve got a few inches on him, but since he’s on his cot and I’m on his bed– my bed– I’m at least a foot above him. I enjoy it.

I imagine I must look a nightmare version of cold fury, because he goes a bit white and sets his jaw, which is what he does when he’s refusing to be intimidated. 

“Fine,” he says, “Don’t talk about it. What the _hell_ did you do with my letter? Because I know you took it.”

That’s one hell of a subject change.

“I don’t know about any letter.”

He shoves both hands through his hair again. It’s a mess, falling over his forehead and spilling from his head. The sides are short, the top of it is wild, and he looks like something I want infinitely more than Snow wants sour-cherry scones. 

“Baz,” he says in a thick voice, “It’s not like I can _do_ anything. You bloody handed it over already. I can’t go back in time. Can you just _say it_?”

“You want me to give you closure?” I scoff at him. “You’re pathetic.” He growls, and a shiver runs down my spine. I imagine him making the same noise, but against my collarbone. In my ear. Muffled against my shoulder.

I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, and he hates me more than he’s ever hated me before. I can see it in his eyes.

I stand up. If he looks at me any longer with that much burning hatred, I think I might fall to pieces right at his feet.

“Bloody hell,” he curses, grabbing at his hair again. “Can you just–”

“No,” I move to the doorway, give that beautiful fierce boy my best sneer. “I _just_ can’t.”

I take one look at his face, step out the door, and avoid him as best as I can. I can’t look at him. 

It doesn’t really work. At all.

Snow has taken to following me about everywhere, as if the longer he spends around me, the more impervious to harm the Salisburys will become. 

It turns out that David didn’t have anything much to say. 

I followed Simon one night, all the way to David’s bed, where they spoke in whispers loud enough that I could hear from the doorway. 

In summary, Snow offered to take full blame for the note and lie that the rest of the household had no knowledge of his political position. He was just a working boy. David praised him for his willingness to sacrifice himself for their “country” and then agreed without protest.

I could only assume Lucy Salisbury was unaware of these events because protecting and providing for Snow and Penelope is what she lives for.

Since David had nothing of worth to contribute to the conversation, Snow has taken to following me about like a dog, which is very unfortunate for me. This has its benefits and it’s downfalls.

It’s easy for me to come up with reasons– sometimes subtle, sometimes less so– for Snow to stay home on Friday nights. Being followed around all the time means I seem to have an increased amount of influence on his decisions.

But it’s torture, too. Because after being slammed against the wall that day, wanting Snow has surpassed everything I imagined it could possibly be. I can’t even service my… baser needs in private because Snow bloody follows me right to the doorway of the loo, and as a result, my dreams rush to compensate for me.

This is one of those dreams: I’m on my back, and Snow is above me, a fierce grin on his face as he leans in– and then I’m awake, gasping, clenching my fists to keep my fingers from racing down for the waistband of my night trousers. I’m glad for the covering the thin sheet over me allows, even if it isn’t much at all. Snow doesn’t even sleep with a sheet– not in the middle of October, when the air is still stale and faintly warm. (To him. It isn’t warm enough for me.)

Snow looks at me, groggy and gently lit by moonlight that peeks through the crack between the curtains. (Yellow is not a good colour for curtains against dark wood, and I’ll die beside that statement.) He wakes easily, as if he’s always on guard. My family tells me I’m a deep sleeper– I’ve never been anything but perfectly safe in my bed. 

“Breathe quieter,” he mumbles, still half asleep. Then he blinks, like he’s just remembered it’s me. “What are you up for?” he asks suspiciously. 

I can hardly answer him the truth. 

He’s staring at me, desperately lovely in the sliver of moonlight that shines in a strip right across his eyes, making them almost glow an ethereal blue and lighting on the very tips of his curls where they tumble haphazardly over his forehead. The rest of his form, lying in the blanket-less cot, is but a shadowy silhouette, making it look as if his blue eyes and stubby, moonlit orange lashes are the only colours in the world.

“A nightmare,” I say. It tumbles off my tongue, the first thing I think of because I’m looking at him and I’m half certain he’s a dream. He’s so beautiful.

He doesn’t believe me; his eyes narrow and his silhouette twitches. I hear the rustle of his night clothes against the straw-stuffed cot. “Were you going to sneak out somewhere?”

“I don’t sneak out anywhere at _night_ , Snow.” I don’t bother to scowl at him– he can’t see my face anyway. Instead, I look at him like he’s an angel. This is the only time I’ll be able to look without him being able to see me too, except when I watch him sleep, and in sleep his eyes are closed.

It isn’t as invasive as you might think, watching him sleep. I hardly imagine myself ravaging his sleeping form or anything of the sort. No; I stare at the rise and fall of his chest, his innocent, sweet face without a scowl, the way his jaw and eyebrows were made to be the poor hero boy in the storybook by my bedside. 

“It was about my mother,” I lie, hoping that’ll shut him up.

It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

He sits up. Now we’re both in the dark, and I can’t watch his eyes anymore. “Your mother? Is she alright? What was the dream?” He sounds like he debated over comforting and invasively curious and decided on an experimental attempt at both. 

I’m not sure the experiment’s working. I’m not sure it’s _not_ , either.

“She’s _dead_.”

Snow is quiet. And then: “Oh.” And then, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault.” 

I hear his fingers twisting in his lap. “How– how did she die?”

I just laugh, humourless. We were just talking about my being a bastard child. I hear Snow curse softly, and I almost crawl over to him and cup his face and tell him to calm the fuck down, it isn’t his responsibility to be sad for everyone else. 

“It– she was a slave, wasn’t she. They killed her?”

I hum a careless affirmative.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

I stop pretending I don’t care, just for this moment in the dark. What does it matter? Everything feels significant and inconsequential at the same time in the dead of night. “Why?”

I hear him blow out a breath. “Because your mother was murdered for senseless reasons. No one deserves that.”

I don’t point out I didn’t tell him why she was killed. A slave killed was explanation enough. I consider a sarcastic _thanks, Snow, that means so much to me_ , but I don’t say it, because it does. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “What about you? What do you know about your parents?”

Snow makes a frustrated sound and I feel like laughing. He shatters the breathless truth between us so easily because everything we are is dependent on him and him alone. Because everything _I_ am is dependent on him. It might kill me someday.

“Nothing,” he says, sounding like a kicked puppy. “All I know is how they found me.”

“How they found you?” I echo, hoping he’ll tell me. I wonder if he’s like Jesus, our “ _Lord and Saviour_ ” as they say. Found in a stable. Simon Snow could be an angel who discovered Satan and took the best out of both worlds: beauty, kindness, goodness, passion, anger, ferocity, fire, fire, fire.

“In the street.” I can hear the pain in his voice. “Literally. In the middle of the street, like they wanted me to get run over.”

“Bloody hell,” I whisper. My chest aches. I try to laugh it off. “Listen to me, you’ve got me cursing like a true soldier.”

I hear a thick breath, like he’s tried to huff out a laugh and it fell flat. I run my tongue over my lips, imagining that breath a couple feet closer, imagine holding him and feeling the heat of his body and remembering that whatever his _stupid, terrible_ parents wanted, he’s alive and here now. I imagine the rustling of our clothes and the sound of his breath and my whispered _, you are wanted. I want you. I want you more than anything; you are wanted_. 

What a joke.

I twist my hands in the sheets and don’t do a damned thing.

“I think they cared about me,” Snow says eventually, his voice coated thickly in doubt and hope at once. “They say I had a rosebud in my hand. A stem and a rosebud, no thorns.” He sighs. “To be fair, no blankets either. They found me in the snow, no blanket, when they were clearing the road.”

“Snow,” I say, “Snow. Simon Snow. They wanted you to die.”

He makes a sound.

Now I know why he hates it when I call him Snow so much. 

I reach out. We aren’t that far apart, Simon and I, distance-wise. His room isn’t exactly spacious, and it wasn’t meant for two beds, so sitting on the edge of my bed and he is on the edge of his cot, I can easily reach out and touch him. I capture his hand. He doesn’t move away, but his hand twitches, warm and alive in my hands.

 _He’s alive now_ , I think. He’s more alive than I’ll ever be. _You’re so alive. You got my share of it._

“Lucky you’re so bloody warm,” I whisper, his hands between my own. My palm to the back of his hand, his palm to the palm of my other hand. I can feel the calluses on his fingertips, on the crease of his palm. “Lucky those bastards were too cowardly to take you out for good.”

I wonder why they wanted him gone. I wonder if he was a beautiful baby– fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, smiling, laughing. I wonder if they couldn’t bear to snuff out something so special. I understand.

I feel the same.


	8. Between all the bleedin' and fightin' I've been readin' and writin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should Simon go to the Friday Market? No. 
> 
> Does he? Yes. 
> 
> What happens then? Wouldn't you like to know.

**SIMON**

The night Baz told me about his mother, and I told him about how the Salisburys found me in the snow, I felt like something was happening. I’m not sure what, exactly, but Baz held my hands, _cradled_ them, like something immeasurably precious, and I thought, _something is happening._

The operative word in that sentence is _I_.

Baz, on the other hand, has gone on acting so infuriatingly normal that I’m half-convinced the whole thing was a dream, only I can’t dream up something as ridiculously outside the realm of reality as Baz holding my hands in the dark and whispering to me how lucky it is I’m alive in a voice that suggests he truly does think it’s lucky. 

Maybe he didn’t feel what I felt that night.

I’m still not sure what I felt that night. Right now, though, I’ve gotten pretty close to reliving that feeling. 

I find Baz playing another of his heartbreaking melodies on his violin after supper, his eyes closed and his expression oddly open. He’s on his bed, like some painting of a young, rich boy mourning a lady or something– so very longing. All of his music is longing.

“This one’s a new one, I think,” I say, swallowing down the ache his playing makes me feel.

He startles so badly he nearly drops his violin and goes bright red, glaring at me. “How long have you been standing there? What are you–”

“Watching you play, and for a while.” I just got here, I pretend I’ve been watching him because I think he’d rather I not. He splutters, very un-Baz like, and hurries to put his violin away. When he leans over to do it, I can see the flush down the back of his neck.

“What do you want?” he asks, still leaning over.

_I want to know why nothing has happened yet._

I’m beginning to think maybe I did misplace General Thomas’s letter after all. Or perhaps processing takes a really long time? I’m not sure why I’m not dead yet, is all. 

Maybe he really didn’t find that note. I can’t _ask_ him, though. He’ll just confuse me further.

“I–” My gaze lands on the book he keeps by his bed– I don’t know why he does it; it isn’t as if he reads directly after getting up or before sleeping. Although. We could. “Will you read?”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s already gone dark.”

He’s right. Our yellow curtains (which I like very much, fuck off, Baz) are open, but even then the sun has set and only the very last warm rays reach into the sky, turning the white clouds a light orange-pink.

Somehow, his reluctance to read makes me want to read, even though I hadn’t actually wanted to when I suggested it.

“I’ll fetch a candle,” I offer.

We end up reading in our room. I curl up on my cot, knees to my chest, head propped up on my elbow, and he sits on his bed, his back against the wall and his long legs stretch out before him. He rests his feet on my shins. I don’t shake him off, but only because I want him to read. He hasn’t read to me in nearly a month, since he’s been pretending _that night_ didn’t happen. Which I’m still hung up on.

The princess is a bit of a firecracker. She hates her father, she doesn’t care about her kingdom, and she flirts with the Earl’s son she’s betrothed to just to vex our hero. She’s sarcastic and witty, even in Baz’s reading voice. 

Baz’s reading voice sounds like an angel’s: calm, steady, and true. All the things Baz isn’t. (Except calm. He’s always calm.) I can’t imagine Baz ever professing his love for anyone, but in his reading voice, it almost sounds natural.

“ _Princess, I beg of you, take my hand for this one night and I’ll return you to your perfect life at dawn. Allow me, just once, to love you the way I would were you meant to be mine, and I, yours._ ” 

I laugh, softly. Baz holds the candle higher to peer at my face, and I can’t help smiling at him. “Wow, Baz, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He flushes a deep shade of red, although I reckon most of it from the color of the flame. “It’s just a story. We ought to stop anyway; my hand’s gotten tired.”

I scramble up to stop him from blowing out the candle. I feel like something’s happening again, and I want to see what it is. “I’ll hold it.”

“I–”

I sit down beside him, and he breaks off in surprise. “I was just teasing. I like hearing you read.” He raises an eyebrow and I hurry to add, “And I like the story.”

He humphs, but darts me a glance out of the corner of his eye and picks up where he left off.

The princess and the hero share a magical night, and then the hero returns the princess to her normal, perfect life. They pretend it didn’t happen.

I think about the story sometimes. It’s better than thinking about real life. The hero and the princess are so _different_ – they come from different ways of life, they care about different things– the hero’s even reluctant to follow his heart because he cares about the princess’s kingdom and knows the country is better off giving her a rich– or even royal– husband who can provide for her, and the princess couldn’t care less about her country… and yet. They love each other so much. I think it’s really sweet. I wonder what will happen to them.

I think it’s a lot better than wondering what will happen to _me_.

“It’s been a month.” I’ve got an armload of firewood, and Penny has come with me to fetch it because I pretty much dragged her here. “A _month_ , Pen.”

“I can keep track of time.” 

Penny takes some wood herself; she’s real strong and no one can tell her what jobs are left to the man. Even if she gets splinters, because ‘ _Good God, Simon, so do you. You get more splinters than I do, I’d wager._

She looks at me doubtfully. “Maybe you really did lose that note of yours?”

“He did act like he knew what I was talking about,” I object. I’m not sure why I’m objecting– I’ve certainly been thinking the same thing. But ideas are always better Penny-tested.

“Didn’t you say he kept denying it?” 

We’re just standing by the woodpile now, our arms full of chopped wood, going nowhere. The pile is getting low– I’ll have to chop more soon, especially with winter coming on. The leaves have begun to turn a vibrant orange, and cold winds will follow. We’ll want a fire in the living room, and then I’ll have to retreat to my bedroom to stay cool until the winter snow comes to balance it out.

“Yeah, but he _acted_ like he knew. I could see it on his face, like he was laughing at me. He _knew_.” There’s just no way he didn’t take the note. “I _know_ he knew.”

Penny hums and starts back towards the house. “I think we would’ve been hung by now.”

“Maybe he’s biding his time.” That’s something villains do in the book Baz is reading to me; the villain– the earl’s son– has hired men to kill the princess. He doesn’t like her and doesn’t want to marry her, and is biding his time.

“Why would he do that?” Penny lets me push open the door for her.

“I dunno.” Maybe he _is_ though. “To gloat?”

“To _gloat_? Simon, you think Baz is withholding the letter’s contents to _gloat_? He hasn’t even been gloating! You said he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He gloats with his eyes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be speaking of me, would you?”

I whip around, and several pieces of wood tumble from my arms. “What?” I shake my head. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t think that,” Baz stands just inside the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against it as he watches us trek in. “I’m just asking.”

I almost stomp my foot like a petulant child. I clench my fingers. “Ow!”

Baz laughs unkindly.

“I swear– leave him alone, Basilton.” Penny walks towards me, her arms too full to grab me by the elbow the way she normally would, and I back up. “You and your splinters, Simon. Let’s get this wood in the pile, and I’ll pull them out.”

Baz laughs again, sneering at me, and I scowl back.

“ _Simon!_ ” 

I follow Penny.

I just don’t understand– why aren’t we in jail yet? Why haven’t there been soldiers at our door, or at least a British warrant to search the house, and probably seize a whole bunch of stuff along the way?

If Baz didn’t turn in my letter when he put on that red coat and went out for an _entire day,_ what did he do that whole time? What did he tell his contact?

It doesn’t take long to find out.

I pull on my coat and head to the market with Penny– she insisted on coming because Shepard would be there, and Penny’s never met him. 

Baz is all twitchy when I leave– he’s been twitchy every Friday market recently, and I bet he’s itching to follow me. He obviously knows something is up, but he can’t seem to think of a good excuse to join us.

“Does Shepard read?”

“I reckon so.” I point her at the next turn, and she looks about at the houses and the shops that line the street, lit by lanterns on the sides of the buildings. “Didn’t Micah say he did?”

“No, only to get my reading from him now.” Penny’s been sorely missing Micah’s conversation. I know because she even tried to start a conversation with me, about the book Baz is reading me, and what I think it symbolizes. I told her I had no idea, I just liked the story, and she sighed and said she expected as much; it was a good story, after all, if a bit romantic.

“Well,” I reason, “he _is_ the paper boy. He’s got to be able to read at least a bit.”

“You work at a print shop and you can barely read.”

“I can _read!_ ”

“Yes, but barely.” She looks as if she wants to say something else, like _it’s okay, you can still copy well enough_ , but just then we take the last turn onto the marketplace. We both come to a halt.

I’ve described it to her before: young people looking for a fun night, gossip every which way you turn your head, meat stalls, the newsboy stand Shepard always stands at. 

It’s not what I described.

“You didn’t mention the Redcoats,” Penny says weakly, watching one group of British troops overturn a meat stand. I love that meat stand– they’ve got scraps for me when I haven’t brought much money with me, and they’ll lower the price for Patriots. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I joke, but it comes out dully.

“Good job,” Penny says, equally flat. “You’ve surprised me.”

“Do you see Shepard?” I ask lowly, wishing I had a higher viewpoint.

“I’ve never met Shepard,” Penny says, and then, warningly, “Simon–”

But I’m already off. Shepard is my friend, and I know _Penny_ is about to tell me to leave. Penny would tell me I have too many friends, but Shepard and I are _brothers in arms_. I can hardly leave him now.

Before I locate his stand, though, something goes up in flames. 

I can hear his voice and turn: he’s got his hands up, pretending in a garbled commoner’s accent that is a lot more convincing than I would’ve expected.

“I didn’t set the fire on purpose, sir, I swear on my life! If it lighted– it’s my papers, sir, I wouldn’t never have wanted them to burn– those there are my livelihood, sirs!” 

If I wasn’t terrified for him, I would laugh. As it is, I want to laugh anyway, at his clear and quick thinking. 

“I was just pulling a match to light myself a pipe an’ you scared me so bad– I thought– I thought to myself _I ain’t done nothin’ wrong_ –” 

Newspapers burn quickly. Soon there isn’t anything left but ashes drifting– they burned so quickly the stand didn’t even catch, only the cloth on it, and Shepard makes a show of struggling out of the Redcoat’s grip and stamping out the cloth, hugging it to his chest, and generally pretending to be very devastated.

“That’s Shepard?” Penny grabs onto my elbow, staring. 

It’s a spectacle.

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t he something.”

“Yeah,” I say. They let him go, and he stumbles off, snuffling about how it was his grandmother’s tablecloth. He’s having fun with this, I can tell. “Yeah,” I say again. “I guess we should go.”

Penny, though, starts after Shepard, and so I follow.

We catch up to him a distance from the raided market, folding up the cloth and stuffing it into the sack over his shoulder, no longer looking the least bit dejected.

“Quite the show,” Penny remarks. 

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Shepard says instantly, his accent still thick. He looks up and stops. “Oh, hey! Simon! My lady, are you a friend of Simon? If so, I, Shepard, and a friend of yours.” His accent has dropped.

“Simon is a friend of _mine_.” Penny is still sizing him up; I can tell by the way her eyes narrow. I still don’t understand why she’s so particular about her friends, but she sure doesn’t take to everyone she meets.

Shepard grins, his white teeth shining in the lamplight. “I like you.”

“Good,” Penny barrels on, unphased. “Do you read?”

Shepard smiles hugely, and I can tell Penny’s a little thrown by how _eager_ he is. “Not as much as I’d like to.”

The corner of Penny’s mouth twitches. “A respectable answer.”

I squeeze her hand. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She frowns at me. “Leave me to _what_? I’ve no business to attend to.” She turns to Shepard briskly. “If I see you again, I hope I will not find you burning words.”

Shepard looks awkward. “Yeah.”

I roll my eyes. “She knows what you do,” I tell him. “She’s just giving you a hard time.”

Penny doesn’t look the least bit contrite. “He’s a newsboy, isn’t he?” But she smiles. “Do you fight?”

Shepard’s eyes flick to me, and I nod my head– Penny is with us. “Yeah,” he says, “But not like Simon.”

I grin. I missed a musket, and a target and the men on the fields, but it’s consoling to hear they missed me back. I stayed away for too long, and really. Now we’re all dragging military supplies to and fro, trying to get it all up to Dorchester without anyone noticing. Shepard has been training with me– plenty of the guys are our age, but plenty are older, and it’s nice to have a partner in training who doesn’t intimidate me.

“See you around.”

He’s my partner now, in practices. I’m the better shot, but he’s the quickest reload, and together, we don’t make a bad pair. Now that I’ve joined them in fortifying the outskirts of Boston, I know he’s a lot stronger than he looks– he pulls his weight in canon and then some.

I grin. “See you.”

When we get home, I look around for Baz automatically– this has to be his doing. The raiding of the market, that is. 

I don’t know what I want to do to him– punch him? Slam him against the wall and to see the fear in his eyes? Wreck his life? 

He’s sitting on the couch, staring at his book when we come in, his knees up, body pulled close like I’ve never seen him– he’s always lounging, stretched out like he lives to be a nuisance to everyone else around him. He doesn’t look like he’s actually reading.

I don’t do anything to him. 

I don’t know _why_. 

When I open the door, his whole body goes tense and he looks up with something _wild_ in his eyes, almost animalistic, and drops his book. There’s relief written all over him like I’ve never seen before, and I don’t know what to do with it. 

Why is he _relieved?_ I’d slam him up against the wall and throw a punch or two, for the market, for Shepard, for all the people who were frightened tonight, but I’m too surprised to do anything but look at him blankly for a moment, watching his features settle and his shoulders relax.

Penny coughs behind me. “Si.”

I flush and shuffle forward– I’m still in the doorway, and Penny’s tapping none too lightly on my shoulder, shivering in the cold air that’s blowing about us. She doesn't like any of the months past November, but I think November is the best of them– cold enough that I’m comfortable, but not yet snowy and bothersome.

I don’t know why I’m not fighting Baz– I’m healed up. He can’t fight, but he can hurt people, evidently. Whoever he’s been talking to when he goes out in that red coat has clear power, and I want to hurt him. Baz, I mean. The person he’s talking to also, but Baz is closer.

And yet.

He’s silent during dinner, and I don’t really know how to read him, not well, even after all these months, but I can tell this at least: he’s shaken up by something, and I’ll bet all my savings under my bed that it’s the Friday market. 

We go to bed early, because dinner is quick– Penny has caught Mr Salisbury’s eye with a very clear look that says _I need to talk to you_ , the look that no one would dare disobey. So they eat quickly and walk off to the kitchen with their dirty plates. 

Baz has been reading to me every night by candlelight now, and we’ve made real progress through the book.

Things feel odd when we go into our bedroom, and he must feel it too, because he doesn’t start reading right away, the way he does usually when I’ve gotten my nightclothes on. 

He just kind of thumbs through the pages, his mind miles away.

I’m sick of it. I don’t want him to be quiet. I want him to be mean, and sneer, and stop making me confused, and I really want to hurt him, don’t I?

There’s a burning in my stomach as he pushes his hair back from falling into his eyes and fingers the red ribbon marking our place. The bottom of it is frayed, like he’s been fiddling with it– it has to be him, no one else is allowed to touch it– and I don’t think it was frayed yesterday. 

The burning in my stomach spreads to my chest as I look at him, his eyebrows pulled together as he strokes the spine. 

“It was you,” I accuse. I feel better-footed now that I’ve gotten started. 

He has been shifty ever since the day he spent out of the house… months ago? _Every Friday_ since then, and I was so hung up on the note I didn’t even think to wonder if he’d found anything else. It hits me suddenly that if I’d connected the dots sooner, I could’ve tipped everyone else off and we could’ve moved the entire operation beforehand. 

_Oh, bugger._

“It was you,” I say with more venom, “The market. You reported the market.”

“Oh?” Baz blinks up at me, his eyes shadowed by the swoop of his hair over his forehead. He doesn’t push it back this time, as he usually does. “Did something happen?”

He’d been _extra_ twitchy about it today– straight up telling us we shouldn’t go, but I didn’t even think about it. Didn’t even notice, really, because I wanted to introduce Penny to Shepard, and I hadn’t gone in forever due to Baz’s hounding. I just ignored him this time.

Did he _not know_ something was happening today? Did he think something would happen sometime and not exactly when? 

When I think about it, every single Friday I didn’t attend– and I’ve missed half a dozen in a row– were all because Baz had some new reason I should stay behind, and I fell for it every time.

But that doesn’t make any sense, because _why_ would Baz want to keep me back if he knew there would be a raid?

I scoff at him. “Like you don’t know.”

Baz lets out a breath, shaky, muttering something to himself that I don’t catch. His head falls forward a bit, and I can’t catch a glimpse of his face anymore, because it’s obscured by his hair.

There’s a long pause. 

He had to have known. It has to be Baz who turned us in.

“I don’t know why I would know,” he says, his voice cool and even, when he looks back up. He’s composed again, whatever else he was thinking firmly locked away. He puts the book to the side with a half smirk, as if my almost-arrest is an amusement to him. “But it sounds like something big. You should be the storyteller tonight.”

I stare at him. “You want me to tell you what happened at the market?”

“Better than watching two fools believe some impossible miracle is going to change the world for them.” He shrugs, but he’s watching me intently, his grey eyes black, black in the dim light and the shadow on his hair. 

I can’t tell if it’s morbid curiosity or cruel sadism that drives his want to know, but I’m not about to tell him. “I don’t think you understand the concept of hope,” I tell him instead. “They’re going to live happily.”

He snorts. “Please. They’re fools for believing it’s going to turn out well. _You’re_ a fool for believing it’s going to turn out well.” 

I open my mouth to argue, because he’s just… _wrong_ about _literally everything_ , but his eyes flick to mine and there’s something in them that makes my breath stop for half a second. It almost looks like an echo of what I felt way back when I found that letter missing– I _knew_ but I wanted to hear it. Just to put a close to that _what if_ in my head. Desperation for closure. 

Which is stupid, and clearly me reading things wrong, but in that split second he speaks again: “And that’s a terrible deflection if I’ve ever seen one.” He gives me this cold sort of grin, the cruel kind. Why didn’t I punch him again? “Do tell. I assume someone found you out? Which of your little Patriot friends got taken off to jail? Who’s getting hung, hmm? Shame it wasn’t Penelope.”

Whatever the reason was for not punching him before, I forget it now. 

I shove him back, leaping at him and pinning him to the bed that used to be mine in one motion, my knee on his chest and my hand grabbing at his wrist, pushing it down into the bed so he can’t hit me with it. 

He shoves the candle on to the shelf in a panicky movement. 

_Bad move,_ I think. Now I can punch him without worrying about the sheets catching fire. 

“Christ,” he curses, shoving at me. He hisses with pain, struggling beneath me.

I get his eye. He really _really_ doesn’t know how to fight.

I get his mouth, his teeth stinging my knuckles, before he throws his arm over his face, still throwing his body weight around uselessly– he can’t get out of this hold like that, but he sure is trying.

“Fuck, Snow,” he growls, his voice frayed with pain. “Sensitive much? Got a friend in the ranks?”

I imagine Shepard hanging from a rope, his brown body jeered at by patriots and redcoats alike– not all freedom fighters really believe in freedom and I _know_ this. 

I practice further downfield than Shepard used to. In the short time that I’ve been his shot practice partner, I’ve seen many Patriots welcome him to our end of the lines. And I’ve seen others be absolute _bastards_.

I yank Baz’s arm away from his face and twist. “Don’t joke about people dying,” I snarl, shoving his shoulder down. 

“Oh,” Baz says, almost whimpering in pain, “Dying, yeah? Regret bringing Penelope yet?”

Penny is brown too. I twist harder and Baz shouts, raw pain in his voice. 

There’s something sparkling in the corners of Baz’s eyes. I think they’re tears of pain. I think of Penny, alive and triumphant. 

Baz gasps out, tears making tracks down his face. “Sorry,” he chokes out, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t– shouldn’t have–”

I don’t know if he means it. I doubt it; he’s in pain. People will say anything to avoid pain.

But where’s the line? I stop twisting further. He can’t even fight back. I think I could kill him if I wanted, and I don’t want to– not here, not now, not like this. 

Penny, hanging.

And he can’t physically stop me. I have to stop myself.

Penny, slapping Baz across the face. And walking away.

I drop his arm. 

He stares up at me, his chest heaving. His whole body trembles. He isn’t fighting back, but he looks unsure of what to do instead, now that I’m not beating his arse. His eyes are caught in candlelight, grey now and locked on me with a look I can’t identify. 

I’m frozen, looking down on him, stilled by whatever it is in his eyes. “ _Especially_ not hangings.”

“What’s going on in there?” Penny calls from somewhere in the house.

His breath comes and leaves, shaky in the silence. He’s bleeding from his lip, and he’ll have a black eye tomorrow. His wrist, the one I’ve pinned, twitches, and I loosen my grip. He doesn’t say anything.

I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to shout something– Mrs. Salisbury would be _so_ upset with me, so I don’t see why he wouldn’t– but he offers me the tiniest smile, wry and humorless.

It’s been a couple long seconds, so I call back, “Nothing!”

I have no idea what’s happening. 

Footsteps pass, and turn. Penny has– surprisingly– _believed_ that nothing is happening. I guess we both expect Baz to be very loud about being wronged if he’s ever wronged.

Baz’s hands slip out of my grasp and rest on my knee, pushing at it lightly which is still shoved onto his chest, keeping him down. He does it without force, as if it’s a request, almost.

I shift off of him, equal parts victorious and sheepish. It’s a weird feeling, like the time when they gave me a target and a musket and set me against the lower guys. I kind of felt bad because I was a lot better of a shot than they expected and I beat them really quickly, but it was also nice to have won something.

That’s how I made my first friends in the militia. Now that my right arm is better again, I’m shooting a little off, but getting better every training. I found Shepard on the field, and we take turns reloading for each other as the other shoots as many targets as he can, building our friendship by beating each other. 

Baz is looking at me almost… almost like _this_ is building friendship too, or building _something_ , which is just about the strangest thing I think I’ve ever experienced. 

He licks his lip. 

“Sorry,” I mutter. Am I sorry? It seems like the thing to say. I think of Penny again. I’m not sorry. There’s blood down the side of his mouth, and I shake out my hand again, still stinging from his teeth. “I’ll wipe you up.”

He looks at me incredulously. He sits up before I’ve finished sitting back, so that for a moment, his breath ghosts against my collarbone, he’s so close. 

“Counter-productive,” he murmurs, his voice weak. 

I don’t have a cloth on me, so I sigh and pull off my shirt. His face looks a bloody mess, and I feel bad about it– didn’t I _say_ I wasn’t going to fight him? He can’t fight. 

I don’t want to be the sort of guy who preys upon the helpless– I’ve _been_ helpless too many times. Colonies themselves are prey for Britain to pick apart, unable to vote for themselves. Helplessness isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. 

I’m not cold without my shirt. 

Baz stares at me, swallowing loudly in the silence, and I let him tip his head up, giving me access to his throat where there’s a trail of blood making its way towards his collar, which is stiff-starched white because he doesn’t change until the candle is out.

“God,” I flick his collar open, bunching up the soft fabric of my nightshirt so it fits over my hand, in a couple layers, like a glove. I soak up the blood. Penny will scold me for the stain. “I hate you.” 

He hisses– I’ve pressed his lip too hard. 

“Shut up.” I press again, dragging the fabric roughly over where his lip has split. His face twists, but he holds his sound this time. “You deserve it.” 

I look him in the eye so he knows I mean it– I’m still pissed as hell at him. His eyes are still full of something odd when he looks at me, something that almost always shows up only at night, when he’s reading to me. I haven’t figured it out yet. 

I think he is imagining hurting me, or plotting my death, maybe. Thinking about what other information he can find if he looks hard enough. My stomach goes cold at the thought. 

Hearing him say it makes it real in a fresh way: Penny. If Penny gets hurt because I’m careless… If Penny gets hurt at all…

“Fuck, Snow,” Baz grunts, shoving me back. “Careful.”

I clench my fist. Why do I hold back? He’s an _arse_. I’m thinking myself in circles, and I hate him, and I want to hurt him, and I don’t want to be the kind of person that does. 

_Shame it wasn’t Penelope._

“Whatever,” I grind out, shoving the nightshirt at him. “Do it yourself.”

“Snow,” he says. “I said I was sorry.”

“I’m going to sleep.” I feel like throwing up, thinking about how Penny could’ve been hurt. His fault for turning us in, yeah, but mine, too, for bringing her.

I turn to look at him: my shirt in his hands, blood dripping down his chin. “Next time you say shit about Penny, I’m not going to stop.”

We stop reading after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* can you tell I had no outline? Yeah, me too.


	9. I've been reading Common Sense by Thomas Paine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They... read Common Sense. Among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everybody! Good riddance 2020!

**BAZ**

Things with Snow got better over the months so slowly that I didn’t _really_ realize how much better they were getting until it stopped. We were _reading together_ , for goodness sake. 

And now we are not.

“I thought dying for the cause was just something you knuckleheads did,” I say carelessly, the afternoon after, when Penelope has left the room, having given up trying to get out of Simon what happened, and why I now have a split lip. “‘Give me liberty or give me death.’”

Snow’s eyes flash at me. If he was going to go easy on me after last night– maybe do a little forgiving and forgetting (which could happen, you never know)– I just threw that chance out the window with zero delay. 

I tell myself I like it better this way. He hates me, and I pretend to hate him. It’s better than him maybe tolerating me, a little bit, leaving me forever in a shaky middle ground.

“That doesn’t mean they should be killed,” he says in a low voice, his hands clenched tight around the back of a chair. “It just means they’ve found a cause worth dying for.” 

He glares at me, which he always does, but there’s something about the way he stands that lets me know I’ve really just popped it. Whatever strange thing we had before is very much gone now.

_Might as well drive it home._

“Maybe you’re quicker to die because you’re just that much more stupid,” I say with a shrug. I look him in the eye. “Or because you know you were meant to die anyway. Snow.”

Back to square one for me, with the break of that unspoken truce we had about that night he told me about his parents and I told him about mine. 

He’s sickeningly attached to people he cares about, and even more so if they can care about him in return. He likes being cared about, I think. He enjoys the exchange of affection.

Conversely, he also seems to enjoy the exchange of hate. Or what he perceives to be hate, anyway. I don’t bother correcting his assumption by changing my behaviour– what would I do? Follow my heart? 

(The hero of our book did as much– followed his heart, that is– and he’s currently rotting in a jail cell, having been caught out with his princess. Just goes to show.) 

I _like_ him believing I hate him, and I _like_ him hating me. 

I get his full attention and he doesn’t figure me out– it’s a win-win. 

Sort of.

I don’t read our book. It sits there on the shelf, the red ribbon’s frayed end hanging out limply, Snow and I now at the same place in the story: hero perpetually stuck in his jail cell. I almost want to know what happens, even though I’m sure I already do. 

Snow was quiet for a bit, _dead silent_ , cold shoulder treatment and everything, and then slowly returned to spluttering at me again, the way he did when I first arrived. I hope, stupidly, that we’ll come full circle, right back to reading. After all, we seem to be headed on the same track, if the glares he gives me is any indication.

And, if we’re really being particular (which I’m not, but for speculation’s sake), it took him months to warm up to me before, and now we’re moving _faster_ , all things considered.

The end of December creeps up on me like a slowly tightening noose around my neck. 

Which just goes to show how I’m still thinking about what I said about Penny and the way Snow went white.

I watch Snow leave for what he says is just a “y’know. Walk about, say hello, get some books from the closed printer” but what is actually, _definitely_ a militia training by the way he’s bright and sweaty, smelling like gunpowder every time he comes back from one of these.

And even though I’m still not sure what I want– it hurts to think about how Snow has apparently found a cause worth dying for and I can’t even decide whether I want to go home or not, even as Father’s _by the end of the year_ rings in my head like a bell every night– I think I want to have that option ready.

I do. I have that letter from ages ago.

But I also know that it’s, well, _from ages ago._ If I hand it in now, with the date found written on it, which I did without thinking, he’ll know I was holding out. There won’t be a chance in hell he’ll let me go home to England.

Which I still don’t know if I want to do, not with Snow’s bright blue eyes haunting my dreams, his body over me and his knee on my chest and the other one between my legs and the real, actual _Simon Snow_ sleeping not five feet away from where I lay. I don’t know if I want to leave that.

But no one is home and I’m visiting my father tomorrow. There will literally never be a chance like this. 

So I shuffle through the things beneath his bed.

Snow saves money beneath the bed, little coins. He could be a working boy for the Salisburys for his whole life if he wanted; Lucy Salisbury would never let him go unless he wanted to, even if her husband makes comments about Snow finding something to do with himself. But I know he wants to live his own life someday. His own house, his own everything else.

Probably settle down with a wife who works in the “revolution” as they like to call it– some lady who punches British soldiers and is a commoner and understands him and agrees with him– which isn’t to say I _don’t_. I’d love for them to have their happy ending (the colonies, not Snow and his imaginary wife) but I don’t think it’s realistic. 

I push the money aside– it isn’t much, anyway– because I don’t want to think about his life without me where he kisses a beautiful wife hello and tells her she did a great job medic-ing up the wounded soldiers or whatever. 

Penelope’s a medic– she treated Snow’s broken arm, anway. And even if Snow doesn't love her that way, he clearly loves her– just goes to show what kind of person he cares for. And how I’m definitely not that kind of person.

If she was the opposite of me, he’d be hooked.

I don’t find anything. He has cleared under the cot, so nothing incriminating can be found, and when I shuffle through the desk-like drawers of the nightstand, nothing comes up. Papers, most of them blank, some of them covered in letters or and repeated words– just practice. I imagine teaching him.

He knows all the letters and a good number of words and he’s very attentive. He _wants_ to know, but no one has had the time to teach him; all he needs is practice. 

Still, I imagine curling up with him, his shoulder brushing mine as I draw out words and definitions and he copies them down, as I speak to him in another language, and another, and he eats them up just as he does English. I imagine his eyes on me, the way he looks at me when I’m reading sometimes, taken by the magic of the story (certainly not by me, that’s for sure). I imagine him saying _thank you, teach me more_ , and I imagine being brave enough to say _anything you like, anything._

I stop imagining before we start kissing. That’s never bloody going to happen.

I sigh and slip my hands through my hair, tying it back so I have something to do for a couple seconds, to steady myself before I do this: I open his clothes’ drawer. 

Socks. Trousers. White button down shirts that he doesn’t like to wear, looser, more casual ones he wears more often. 

All of them smell like him– fresh and soapy like sunshine put through a vigorous washing, like fresh air where the grass is green, not this muddy town’s stale air that smells like manure. He smells almost like home– literally. Like the meadows behind our England estate that I used to run around in when I was younger, and read in when I got older.

His pants are here, too, and I feel hot with embarrassment, even though there’s no one here to see me flick through them quickly, looking for the white, crisp flash of paper. They’re soft, and I should stop thinking about them, only now I’m thinking about seeing Snow undress at night– his legs, the moles on the inside crease of his knee by candlelight, the shift in the muscles on his back as he pulls off his shirt.

There isn’t anything in his undergarments, and I’m relieved for it, because I don’t know what I’d think of myself if I had a substantial piece of evidence in my pocket that came from between Snow’s underpants, or what I’d think of _Snow_ knowing he’d hid something there.

I fumble around more, and there’s a crinkle.

There’s something in his shirt pocket.

It’s a clean shirt, evidently not worn, which means he must’ve taken something and put it into the pocket of his clean shirt, possibly for better protection. 

It’s David Salisbury’s handwriting; I recognise it first-glance. I feel a flash of satisfaction– Davy Salisbury is the worst. He talks endlessly, and even though I spend most of my time watching Snow, I don’t miss the way he talks at me as if I’m not only _not_ a threat (because let’s face it– I’m probably not, at this point, not with Snow… existing) but as if I’m a fool. He brings up the same revolutionary points over and over, now that the family has collectively dropped their neutralist masquerade party and returned to themselves. 

It’s a short list of titles– essay titles, and some are ones that I recognise from little papers around, the ones everyone involved thinks are underground but are not as secret as the writers might like, though the writers stay anonymous and don’t often get found out.

These ones are evidently written by David Salisbury.

 _M. Cordero is out. Get these ones to the shepard when you are able._

Snow must have kept it as a reminder– some of these essays are unpublished, and I’ll bet good money Snow has yet to get them to whoever “the shepard” is.

Sure, I get it, the British colonies have _free-er_ press than Britain does, but they don’t have _free_ free press. Some of the things that are written in these essays– and I should know, I’ve _read_ them– could definitely be something substantial, especially since the written word has been such a game-changer in these rising sentiments we’re seeing all around. If the commoners didn’t have essays like this to convince them, few of them would be partial to the cause. 

So, he might talk the talk and not walk the walk, but his words have a couple hundred other people walking. He might even have me walking, right into the closed Boston harbour and onto a ship bound for England.

I wonder what I would tell Snow. _Run. Just run. Trust me, they’re going to come now that they have what they’ve wanted from you._

As if he would listen to me.

But I know my father won’t think this is the only thing he can get from Simon.

In any case, David is always on Snow’s case to get to where the fight is, which only encourages Snow to get himself hurt. And the time when Snow offered to take full responsibility for the letter and not indicate Mr Salisbury at all and the man _agreed_? I’ll never forgive him for it. Snow will get _hurt_ one day because of this man. Even if the tosser _can_ throw a good punch, I don’t want him anywhere near a fight. 

I’ll be glad to see Salisbury go for a little while.

When I hand it over, my father smiles at me. 

It’s not a nice smile.

“And where did you say you found this?” He fingers the little folded piece of paper, a little yellow, pale, David Salisbury’s wild handwriting barely legible.

“His guardian’s drawer,” I say. It’s _almost_ true. I’m not worried about Snow being _found out_ about anything– I searched the house like mad, but Snow cleans up pretty well for a careless idiot, and I couldn’t find a single thing he’d left behind. Unfortunately, David Salisbury was the same. 

Or maybe, fortunately, since at least Snow won’t have to say goodbye to his beloved father figure. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure someday that Davy Salisbury is going to slip up, but not today. He’s wily, if brash, which is not a combination of traits I think I’ve seen in anyone before. I hate it.

“And you can identify the handwriting?”

My mind races– can I? I don’t even know what he’ll do to me if I don’t have anything for him by the end of the year. By his words, leave me here in America forever. By the look in his eyes? Possibly reveal my heritage, disown me, and cast me to live on the streets, unable to get a job because of my race. I am only a tool to him, and I am nothing at all to everyone else. If I’m a tool that does not function, he has no use for me at all.

But if I identify the handwriting, there’s a possibility Mr Salisbury won’t end up going to jail for a couple of weeks, or even for a month or longer– there’s a chance he’ll be hanged good and proper for the words he’s written. 

I don’t want that for Snow.

“No,” I say, “I wish I could. It’s likely a note he received, not one he wrote. Doesn’t matter who it’s from. It matters who it’s for. If you can find the guy it speaks of– the shepard? I’m sure you could shut the whole newspaper down. And we know he _had_ the note, whoever it was from. You can question him over it.”

David won’t incriminate himself– he’s much too smart for that. Snow will have the Merlin to his Arthur and I will have satisfied my end-of-the-year deadline, though not to the extent that will get me sent home, which means I’ll be around to hopefully prevent Snow from getting himself killed. 

And as a plus, they’re sure to take Mr Salisbury in for questioning, and I’ll get a week or so without his ceaseless ranting. Who knows, maybe he’ll get sick in those crowded jails.

My father looks at me for a long moment. “You’ve done well, Tyrannus,” he says finally, which is really something, given that he’s called me nothing but Basilton every time we’ve met up since I arrived here. 

I still hear it and think of the slaves whispering to me, _she called you Basilton. If she could have chosen your name, it would have been Basilton only._

My father folds and unfolds the note. “We’ve been following this newspaper for a while, and we caught a few hints back at the market raid. I think this might just put the nail in the coffin. I’ll make sure to keep you posted on anything we find.”

I incline my head at him, feeling strangely empty. It’s not that I _want_ the patriots to win, even if I don’t want them to lose. But some of the essays published in that paper (not in Davy’s essays; they’re much too fiery, but others) had some points. There were some good writers in there.

There were some good _arguments_ in there.

Strangely, this thought overshadows what should be my initial thought: that I’ve done it. That I’ve managed to maneuver the information at my disposal just so, in order to make things as good as they can be for Snow. 

Instead, I sort of feel like I’ve dodged one of Snow’s punches. _Great_ , no pain. _Not great_ , there will be more coming, and I’m fighting the losing fight. Because life with my father is never going to be a happy one. If I manage to save Snow from a hanging or one of those filthy jail sells that fester with disease, and go back to England, when my father comes back home– and he will– I’ll be miserable all over again. And until then, he’ll make it miserable for me right here.

As for Snow, well. I could leave, and the next man assigned to him would have him dead before I even boarded my ship. I could stay, leading my father to believe discovery is at my fingertips, to keep Snow alive. Forever, forever, forever.

I feel like the losing side of a game of chess, moving all my pieces just so. I’m alive, yes. But I remember Aunt Fiona, before she moved off to the colonies, teaching little me how to play chess. (I wonder where she is now. She taught me how to castle; I can only picture her in one now.)

 _Here,_ she said, _do you see this? This pawn cannot move. Do you know why?_

I said no. I did not. Nothing was blocking its way. Pawns could move forward, couldn’t they? It was in the rule book.

 _Because if this moves–_ she moved it, demonstrating, and pointed to an enemy bishop. _The king is exposed, and then the game is up. Do you see?_

Eventually, another piece took the pawn, and then the last safeguard was no more; in two moves, the king was taken. But the pawn could not have moved to defend itself. It was protecting someone far more valuable.

 _Yes_ , I said. I did see. The pawn could not do anything to make the situation better. It could only temporarily hold off the inevitable end, and wait.

Thomas Paine’s _Common Sense_ is published while I’m waiting, and I catch Snow with a copy of it, his brow furrowed as he leans over the pages. I’m a bit surprised he’s gotten hold of a copy of it– sales have absolutely exploded and the presses are struggling to pop off more copies of it, even though it’s barely been published– what– a month ago? 

It has made the colonies absolutely go wild. (Though I’ll admit it: it’s warranted, at least to some degree. It’s an impressive piece of writing, and a convincing one.)

“From your printer friend?” I guess, since there’s no way he’s happened upon a copy and managed to snag it by chance. 

He flashes his angry glare and me, and I want to– I don’t know, do _everything_ with him. Saying sorry might be the first step– but it was _months_ ago. Or, a month and a half ago. I also brought up the origin of his middle name, but _again_ , it’s been forever. 

I just want… I just want to not be like this. I want to be the kind of person that Snow would want to… spend time with, for a start. Or at least look at for more than five seconds without glaring. 

He still hasn’t brought up that I’m a slave’s bastard son in retaliation. I suppose there are lines he doesn’t cross. I wish I could say the same about myself.

“I’ll read it to you,” I hear myself say. He looks up. “ _Common Sense_.” I don’t know what I’m doing. _What. Am. I. Doing?_ “I’ll read it to you.”

He hates me even more than he did when I first showed up. I don’t think talking to him is a good idea, because sometimes it seems like his resolve not to punch me is hanging by a thread, and I don’t want to snap that. Punches _hurt_ , and I still don’t know how to fight back.

But I miss the way he used to look at me when I read. 

And he clearly wants to know what _Common Sense_ says. And it’ll be kind of nice to coexist.

“Fuck off,” he says.

“Pardon?” I pull up a chair beside him. “Let me see it.”

“ _Fuck. Off,_ ” he says clearly. 

“Snow,” I say. I will _not_ fuck off. I like it when he talks to me. I’m addicted to him.

He looks back up. “Don’t call me Snow.”

There it is. He’s looking at me _like that_ – angry, like he’d like to burn me alive. I think I’d let him. I can’t say no to him. 

Especially given my history with his middle name. Especially knowing calling him “Snow” is probably going to get me punched now that he’s told me not to call him it.

But I don’t want to say Simon. It’s too much. It’s like putting my heart into a word. _It_ is _my heart in a word_. 

And my love for Simon, it’s too big. It doesn’t fit in my mouth. 

“...Salisbury,” I say in my most placating tone. 

He laughs, a cynical sort of laugh, as if to say _what did I expect?_ and pulls away the pamphlet, pushing back from the table. His hands are tight around it, his jaw tense.

 _He hates me_. 

I just keep digging myself deeper and deeper, don’t I?

I catch his arm. His shirt is rough under my fingertips– even Snow wears thick clothing in January. “Simon,” I say before I can stop myself. “I’ll read it to you.”

I’m not in my right mind– that’s the only explanation for how stupid I’m acting. It’s just… this is the longest conversation we’ve had in forever, the longest he has looked at me since I fucked up. I keep acting stupid.

“What do you _want_?” 

I smile wryly. _You_. “Come on,” I say. 

He tugs his sleeve from my grasp and I catch his scent– soap and clean air, sunshine and the woollen scarf that he wears when he goes out that Mrs Salisbury knit for him. I think of the note I found in his shirt pocket, which is all I’ve been thinking about (except for Snow himself, obviously) for weeks.

I don’t say reading to him will be faster than him trying to read it himself– I doubt that would go over well. Instead I opt for the best olive branch I can find: “I read it already. It’s quite good.”

He gapes at me. Honestly. As if I can’t appreciate writing I don’t agree with. Not to mention, I’m not sure I completely disagree with it anymore.

“You’re taking the piss,” he accuses.

“I’m not,” I say. I think maybe I should stop. This is moving away from stubbornly-not-leaving-you-alone territory and into desperate-for-your-company territory. Which it always was in, but it wasn’t meant to be so bloody obvious. “I’ll read, and you can follow along.”

I’m about to let it drop when Snow sets his jaw. I hold my breath.

“Fine,” he says, like he’s doing me a favour and not the other way around. 

Maybe he is. He’s talking to me, and that’s worth everything. I think I’d read to him for days on end to get him to say a word to me. I’d read to him until my voice was gone, and then I’d go on mouthing the words. 

An irrational joy sweeps through me at this one word, tingling at the base of my spine and kicking up my pulse so it beats double fast, stuck in my throat. 

This is how we are: 

Him, his shoulder pressed against mine as he tries to follow along; me, dying beside him, feeling like heaven and torture with the warmth of him against me, reading out:

“Mankind being originally equals in the order of creation, the equality could only be destroyed by some subsequent circumstance; the distinctions of rich, and poor, may in a great measure be accounted for–”

And this, of course, is when things finally happen.

There are a couple knocks on the door, quick and harsh. It is unlocked. It’s day, after all, and everyone is home. 

The door opens without anyone actually letting them in, and a cold draft of winter air swepts over us.

Two British troops. 

No, three.

They hold up a warrant.

Snow is on his feet, quick as a whip, leaving me to tingle where his shoulder was a second ago. “Search warrant?” He asks, brisk and young, sounding for all the world like he knows the procedure. Maybe he does. I wonder if they’ve gotten searched before.

“No,” the man says. Snow’s shoulders relax for a moment, but the soldier says, “Arrest warrant.” 

Red coat, gleaming buttons, a clean shaven face and a sneer. I wonder if I looked anywhere near as smug when I first showed up here with my warrant. Smugger, probably. I see now why Snow might’ve hated me on sight. (Also, I was an arse to him.)

I stand coolly by Snow. “Issued by?”

“General Hugh Percy,” the man behind him pips up. Skinny as a rail with a moustache and a musket. _A musket._ “We’re looking for David Salisbury. Papers say this is his residence.”

If they hurt Snow I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t _fight._ I might give it a try anyway. 

Snow hisses quietly through his teeth, obviously recognising my father’s name: he rescued the Concord expedition when the colonial militia was chasing them off, and he’s been a big name with the British occupation as well– the reason the colonists have put Boston under siege– as well. 

_That’s my father_ , I think, looking at the way his face sets in anger, _you think you hate me now? That’s nothing to what it could be_. 

It’s a horrible reminder that me and Snow? We’re nothing at all. There’s simply not even an ounce of potential– not that he’d ever love me, or even consider me for half a moment, but if he did, it would be over in a flash. We’re from different worlds. 

“On what grounds?” David Salisbury comes up from behind us, and I can see in the way Snow clenches his jaw that he was hoping David would stay in the back rooms. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“We don’t have to explain,” the first man says, seizing David’s collar. “We’re taking you in for questioning.”

Snow makes a sound, starting forward, and I grab for him wildly, holding him back even though he’s far stronger than I am. I’m more desperate. That man has a _musket._

I yank Snow backwards, against me. Our bodies are pressed flush, and now is _not_ the time to think about it. “Behave,” I whisper in his ear, “they’ve only got enough to keep him for a questioning, nothing more. A couple weeks, at the _most_.”

He freezes in my arms.

The soldiers leave with David, because _David,_ for one, is either smart enough or cowardly enough to follow along. They don’t even step inside the house to let any of the other family members know. 

I wait for it.

This time, waiting is faster than I expected.

He knows what it means that I know what they have on Mr Salisbury. He doesn’t have to say anything.

He just socks me right in the stomach. Pain blooms behind my eyelids and I double over. He shoves me to the ground. It’s a lot more painful and a lot less arousing than being shoved against the wall. 

“Simon!” someone shouts. I’ve never been more grateful to Penelope in my life. “What the hell?”

“Mr Salisbury,” Snow says, “Arrest warrant.”

“Full sentences, Snow,” I groan around my pain. “His essays weren’t even that good.”

He looks like he’s about to hit me again, but he stops and stares. “His what?” His voice is faint. I hear Penelope curse long and hard behind him, possibly the most I’ve heard anyone curse except for Aunt Fiona.

Oh.

Shit.

“His essays?” I say weakly. 

Penelope crouches down to my level and looks me dead in the eyes. She’s terrifying. “You’re aware that he’ll be hung for those. For treasonous talk.”

I swallow. How to say it? _I didn’t turn him in all the way because I happen to be in love with that boy right there–_

Snow makes an impatient noise and yanks me up, shoving me none-too-gently onto the couch. I don’t even try to resist. His hands, where they grab my arms painfully tight, are hot, even through my winter clothing. “I thought you said you only gave them enough evidence to hold him for a couple of weeks.”

His eyes are on fire, and I lose my breath just looking at him– his clenched jaw, his burning gaze, the mess of his hair from his wild movements. He hates me almost as much as I love him, I think. It’s a tragedy, and maybe also a blessing, for him anyway. I can’t imagine him with someone like me.

“I…” 

This is the absolute worst time to get lost in him, but he’s stunning when he’s angry– he’s always stunning, but this… and the brilliance of it all… it’s like something precious and huge burning– it’s horrible, and the flame, as horrible as it is, is a kind of feral beauty all on its own. His cheeks are red– definitely from the anger, not the cold– and he’s got every last bit of his attention focused solely on me. It’s as if the sun decided to only shine on one person. Intense. Painful. 

He growls out my name. “ _Baz.”_

“I didn’t tell him about who wrote the essays. I gave him a piece of correspondence I found in his drawers.” He doesn’t need to know it was actually found in _his_ drawers; he’ll be endlessly guilty. 

“I don’t– understand–” Snow falters and looks to Penelope. “If you knew he wrote essays, why didn’t you…” He runs his fingers over his knuckles. 

I hope they hurt. They probably don’t, though, because he punched me in the stomach. They don’t hurt. Right? Does he need a bandage? No; he didn’t need one when he punched me in the mouth.

“Some things will forever remain a mystery.” I don’t know what else to say. I can’t think of any sort of excuse I could offer. Except… I could say I didn’t tell so that I could lord the information over Snow and blackmail him with it. 

Whatever sort of shit person David is (fucking _telling Snow to take responsibility if they got caught out,_ I will never be over it) Snow clearly cares for him. If I say something like that, there’s probably no coming back from it with Snow. 

“If you do as I say,” I tell him, forcing a twisted grin onto my face, “Maybe I’ll keep it hush.”

Snow’s eyes widen and his fists reflexively curl tight. I tense, ready to throw my arms up over my face– but I needn’t. He grits his teeth hard, his cheeks filling with even more colour. Penelope goes still beside him, her eyes stone cold. 

I flash my brightest grin at them both. “Good job, Snow. Keeping your temper to save your… well, I suppose he’s not your father, is he?”

Snow makes a strangled noise and turns on his heel, storming out the door. A twisted satisfaction builds in my chest from having fucked something up so spectacularly. We had this coming, Snow and I. I think he’s _this close_ to killing me– I’m quite literally his enemy, on the other side of the war, and we were always meant to be like this: fraught with anger and tension. It’s almost like scratching an itch in my mind to finally quell pathetic _what if_ in my mind.

“I can’t believe I ever thought you were halfway alright,” Penelope says. She looks like she wants to say more, but her eyes flick towards the door– she wants, even more, to go after Snow, and she doesn’t want me to snap and get Mr Salisbury hung.

I shouldn’t have said that. About doing as I say; about keeping it hush. The sick pleasure of messing up that badly only lasted half a minute. I don’t know why I did– the _maybe– but no– but maybe_ is exhausting and pointless, but at least I had the tiniest, tiniest _maybe_. Now I have _most certainly not_.

And the look on Snow’s face: furious, hurt, so upset with himself, so afraid, so full of hatred. I never want to make him feel like that again. _Simon. Simon Snow._

I shrug at Penelope and my stomach throbs where Snow punched me. “I can’t believe you ever thought that either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How will I dig Baz out of that hole? I don't know.


	10. You spit, I'm 'a sit. We'll see where we land.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davy comes back. Why is he back? How did he get them to release him? Funny you should ask...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is finally picking up, I think. I desperately hope you agree.

**SIMON**

I slog through _Common Sense_ on my own.

It takes me a few weeks, because I read so much slower than Baz reads to me, and because I have far less time now that General Thomas has us putting up the last things we need to attack, and drive the British out of Boston. 

We’re doing it _soon,_ Thomas says. The date creeps up on me like cold fingers around my heart. I want to fight, but I’m not sure how to tell Penny it’s happening. Or what I’m going to do about Mrs. Salisbury at all.

Baz tells me to do a grand total of zero things. I think either he’s trying to fuck with my mind, or he has no idea what he wants, and I’m more inclined to think the former– there’s no one who acts so sure of himself quite like Baz does.

We don’t talk. At all. Except to pass food around the table, or quiet “get out of my way”s, or “going to market?” “Yeah.” “Hmm.” 

We haven’t been reading for a long while now, and I’m still left wondering what happens to the hero. He’s jailed now, his relationship with the princess having been discovered, and that can’t be the _end_ of the story.

It feels strange to not be arguing with him all the time, and I almost do a dozen times, but I don’t want to give him a reason to turn in more evidence on Mr. Salisbury. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, watching me, as if imagining my death. That’s what it feels like, anyway. I have no idea why he’d look at me so intently, but it happens so often, I know I’m not imagining it.

He goes back to his violin-playing, this time angrier and somehow no less sad. Whatever pieces he learned in his stupid fancy upbringing, they certainly weren’t all that into joy. I once more find myself wondering about _who_ his father is, what _family_ he comes from… They must be rich, but I’ve known this since the moment he arrived at our door.

I think a lot about hurting him, but it all comes down to Mr. Salisbury, and if Mr. Salisbury gets hurt because of me– hell, _hanged_ because of me, that’s something I’ll never be able to come back from it with myself, so I don’t cross that line. 

Occasionally, Penny offers to read to me, but even though I hate Baz, there’s something about his voice not even Penny can match. It’s thoughtful and immersive– Penny’s more business-like, methodical. This, this, this, done. When Baz reads through things, he takes his time.

I _don’t_ take my time– I really am trying to read it, and strangely enough Baz isn’t making fun of the snail’s pace at which I read– but even when I try to go fast, it takes me forever to get through it.

By the time I’ve reached the last page of _Common Sense,_ Mr. Salisbury is back. 

Baz didn’t say anything, it seems. 

When he comes back, there’s something shifty about him, something different. His mouth sets in a frown; his eyes narrow at the things Penny and I say, flashing whenever we mention Whig ideas. He’s harsh and hard with Mrs. Salisbury, which he never is.

After effects of jail? I’m still glad he’s back, and that Baz… well, that Baz didn’t do anything, I guess. I can’t fathom what Baz is thinking– what’s his grand plan? He has to have one. What was the point of turning in Mr. Salisbury and threatening me if he wasn’t going to do anything else?

We eat together, a nice, big supper to celebrate Mr. Salisbury coming back, and I stare at Baz the whole time. Baz watches Mr. Salisbury eat and talk with distaste written all over his face, which is odd, because he had ample opportunity to be rid of him.

“So,” I say, the first time I’ve talked to him since they took Mr. Salisbury. “He’s back?”

Baz looks up, wide-eyed and mocking. “Is he really? Point me where. I hadn’t noticed.”

I can’t think of a circumstance where his evidence would expire in its usefulness after Mr Salisbury got out of jail, so I shoot him a glare, but I bite my tongue hard enough that I taste blood and I don’t say anything. If he’s still got that information tucked away, like hell am I going to piss him off and get Mr. Salisbury thrown right back into jail.

Mr. Salisbury hasn’t even noticed our conversation; he’s too busy having a heated hissing argument with Mrs. Salisbury.

“They don’t hang people, because they’re cowards, alright? They try to negotiate plea deals so they don’t make the whigs more upset, and those who don’t just sit and fester in jails.”

“They still die, then?” Mrs. Salisbury watches Mr. Salisbury’s face very intently. “I doubt those jails are healthy. Surely it might as well be a death sentence.” 

“They don’t _hang_ people.” Mr. Salisbury doesn’t answer the question. “I think they stopped when they realized the people would only hate them more for it.”

There’s the gentle sound of a sigh beside me, and then Baz sets down his knife and takes a breath like he’s readying himself to do something really big. It’s strange to think of Baz every having to prepare himself for anything– he seems so ready to take anything that comes. He always knows just the thing to say to piss me off.

Kill me, maybe? But then why would he set down his knife? (I’m joking; he won’t kill me with all these people around. He’ll kill me in some sinister way, after luring me somewhere where no one will find the body, and first, he’ll be sure to give himself a good alibi and provide reason as to why I won’t be around for a while.)

“Sno– Simon.” _Simon?_ He has my attention. 

He fingers the stitching on the edge of his napkin, his fingers extra spindly in the harsh evening light. He doesn’t eat much, Baz. He’s so slim, and his face is made up of sharp lines: his jaw, his cheekbones, even the flat slant of his mouth looks unforgiving and angry. 

He tips his chin my way, as if to look at me, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the edge of the napkin, and his expression is shadowed by his hair, which is untied. It’s shiny, gleaming darkly come evening light. “I’m not going to… do anything to Mr. Salisbury.”

“Really?” I snort. “Why do I not believe you?”

“I can’t.” Baz hesitates. “I… I lost the… evidence. So, I can’t.”

“So there were two pieces of evidence, then?” I look at him, but he’s turned his face down and I can’t get a read on it. 

I have no idea what’s happening. _What is he trying to do?_ I want to see his eyes so I can tell if he’s lying (although even when I look in his eyes, I usually can’t tell. And yet, somehow it makes me feel a little more reassured.)

“What?”

Penny juts in– she knows what I’m thinking, but she’ll be able to say it in half the words. She leans over the table, nearly getting the tips of her hair in the butter. “Two pieces. Because if you turned in the evidence, I’m sure they still have it.” 

I watch him poke at his potatoes with his fork.

“Right,” he agrees, “I lost the second piece of evidence, the one I didn’t give them.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard him agree with me (Penny, but it was what I was thinking, too), and when he finally does, it doesn’t even count.

I don’t believe him for a minute, but I can’t fathom why he’d lie to me about it. What’s this giving him? Some slack with me? _Is he trying to earn my trust?_

Oh, bugger. Has he been trying to earn my trust and affection this whole time, so I’ll spill all my revolutionary secrets right into his lap? And then he’ll go to whoever he’s reporting to… I might not be anyone of note, but I have a surprising amount of trust among the whigs and I’ve got _loads_ of secrets stuffed into my mind. I’m full of them.

Oh, _bugger_. I was falling for it, too, somehow. With him reading to me, and telling me about his mother, and holding my hands in the dark. With his pretty grey eyes and the way his shiny hair falls over his forehead– not that that has to do with getting on my good side, but it’s just… something about him that adds to it, somehow. He was such a completely natural person to me, slowly worming his way into my– 

Well, whatever. He’s here to steal secrets, right from my mouth, I’ll bet on it. Here to get me to spill without even the _need_ for rifling about under my bed, which I’ve cleared out.

He’s _good_.

“I don’t trust you,” I inform him, “If you’re angling for me to spill any of my secrets. I’m never going to trust you.”

Baz’s hand tightens on his fork, so tight the metal shape of it must be digging into his hand. He opens his mouth as if to say something, though I don’t know what– I still can’t get a read on his face– when there’s a burst of noise at the end of the table.

“Davy!” Mrs. Salisbury’s eyes flash like steel. “Tell me you’re joking. Are you brainless? _Heartless?_ ”

Penny, Baz, and I all shut our mouths. Baz has only been here… well, nearly a year, at this point, but even he knows this never happens. Usually Mrs. Salisbury is as quiet as a ghost, and I know I’m not the only one shocked by the hardness in her voice.

“Lucy,” Mr. Salisbury murmurs, his voice placating. “Lucy, my love. We’ll be alright.”

“ _We’ll_ be alright, yes,” Lucy agrees, pushing back and standing up. The chair screeches against the floor, loud and grating. Baz winces beside me. “What about Shepard?”

My gut goes cold. The image I pictured, the one that Baz’s taunting had put in my mind: Shepard, hanging. The things Shepard does… it could absolutely get him hung. Mr. Salisbury just said they let them stay in jail, and try to work out a plea rather than hanging them, for the sake of public opinion. 

But I know Shepard will never take a plea deal– he’s far too tied to this cause, like I am. His family were Loyalists, and he broke ties with them quick as a whip. “Tories, the lot of them,” he said, his mother’s money in his fist, and stole his father’s musket.

He’ll rot in jail. Seventeen years old, and he’ll rot away in jail and hardly be fed a thing, stuck in close quarters with dozens of other prisoners. Even I’ve heard the rumors about the speed at which sickness spreads from one man to another in those cells.

“What about him?” Mr. Salisbury says, waving his hand carelessly. He stands, reaching for Mrs. Salisbury as if to hold her, but she doesn’t move into him.

“Shepard?” I echo over him, “Yeah, what about him?”

“It doesn’t matter, Simon,” Mr. Salisbury tells me tiredly, running his hand over his face, as if I’m a nagging child. 

“Shepard is my _friend_. Whatever’s happening with him, I want to know.” I can feel the wrongness in the air, the creeping feeling of dread building like a growing stone in my stomach. Something has happened to Shepard, and I want to know– I _need_ to know.

“Friend?” I hear Baz echo under his breath, his voice walking the line between question and realization.

Penny goes white too– she went about sometimes with me, after the market shut down, to our new location down in a tavern not far away, and she hasn’t stopped giving him a hard time yet, but I know she has gotten fond. “Don’t tell us around Baz,” she interjects quickly, which is more foresight than I had.

“Right, of course,” I agree quickly. 

Baz stiffens beside me– what did he expect? That we’d just dump information right into his lap?– and his bony fingers twist and twist in his napkin so that they look like a knot clenched in his hand. I didn’t take him for a fidgeter, but he’s not _fiddling;_ it’s too tense and tight for that. He pulls at it so hard, I half think he’ll tear the cloth.

Mrs. Salisbury is shaking her head slowly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of Mr. Salisbury, and whatever she sees in his face isn’t good, because her shoulders slump. “No, no use.” 

Penny and I fall silent. Baz watches me, and it feels like he’s studying my every move. Does he know who Shepard is? I bloody hope not. 

“Davy–” Mrs. Salisbury looks at her husband. “Davy turned him in.”

I must’ve misheard.

 _Davy turned him in_.

Or something.

Right? _Right?_

It’s ridiculous anyway– what would Shepard have to do with Mr. Salisbury’s essays? Except… Micah was the printer we used, and they turned their operations over to… 

_Shepard_ , I think. 

“But they let me go free,” Mr. Salisbury says, “We can move away. We’ll abandon the revolution– it was a delusion anyway. We’ll all be safe, and they won’t bother finding us, not if we behave.”

I can’t believe this is happening. I _cannot_ believe this is happening. I have the wild urge to turn to Penny and ask her to tell me I’m dreaming. “What about Shepard?” I say hollowly. 

I remember his stupid fake accent and the way he smiled at Penny. I’ve been his target-practice buddy, and we reload for each other for ten minutes, fifteen, and then switch. January, hauling canon up the hills together. Other than Penny, he’s the closest friend I’ve got. 

“We’ll abandon the revolution?” Penny sticks her chin out. “What kind of traitor are you? I guess you _really_ put the _Loyal_ in Loyalist.”

Baz laughs and I whirl to face him. “ _Give me liberty or give me death_ ,” he says quoting Patrick Henry. “Or, if I’m too cowardly, just give me the death of whatever young man is most convenient, isn’t that right?” He has pushed his hair back, now, and his grey eyes glimmer with mocking laughter, his mouth twisted into an ironic sneer.

“Stay out of this,” I growl at him. He’s laughing at me, isn’t he, for staying so loyal to Mr. Salisbury when he… when he… I can’t even think it. 

I’m standing too, now, my hands flat on the table, and Mr. Salisbury is watching me with what seems to be surprise. His thoughtful, _consider this_ face is spoiled because his eyebrows jump up at the _slap_ of my palms against the rough wood. 

“ _Shepard_?” I growl, trying to reconcile this man with the one that was spewing radical talk just a month ago. “ _His_ life for _yours_?

Mrs. Salisbury comes to terms with it faster than I do. She shoves him, hard, her eyes flashing brightly with tears. “Get out,” she says. 

Mr. Salisbury turns to her, stumbling back from the force of her push.

“Lucy,” he croons, “Lucy. Love, I wanted them to be safe.” He waves a hand towards me and Penny– I’ll give him this: he knows exactly what Mrs. Salisbury cares about most. “I wanted them to have a home.”

“Sure you did.” Can Baz shut his mouth for a minute?

I turn to look at Baz, but his eyes are fixed on Mr. Salisbury now, his gaze brimming with revulsion. Baz raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, his hair falling back from his face. He still looks like a fallen angel; dark, but still beautiful, smiling lazily, cruelly. 

He tips his chin up, as if to say he won’t bother standing up for Mr. Salisbury, a sign of disrespect. “That’s why you’re always telling Simon to fight, right? Make himself useful?”

 _Fuck_. Mrs. Salisbury looks between me, Baz, and her husband slowly. She can read me like an open book– I’m easy to read, as Agatha used to say. She can tell Baz isn’t lying.

“I–” Mr. Salisbury starts.

“How did I not know?” Her voice is quiet, but it carries. “Of course you would– Simon. Did you fight?”

I shift uneasily. “No,” I say, but she’s the closest thing I have to a mother, and I won’t try to deceive her with things that are half-true. “But I did train with a musket.” I want to be fair: I didn’t only train because Mr. Salisbury told me I should fight. “I want to fight.”

She makes a soft sound of terror, or maybe grief. Anger, maybe. Maybe a lot of things at once. 

“Also,” Baz speaks up, because he _just won’t stay out of it_ , “there’s a letter that it seems Simon misplaced. I assume it was incriminating, because he asked–”

“Lucy,” Mr. Salisbury interrupts urgently, his hands grasping at his wife’s. “I didn’t want him to get hurt, I promise. He wanted to fight. He wouldn’t be put off.”

I can practically _feel_ Baz gearing up to say more. It’s almost as if he’s _enjoying_ this. I bet he is.

I turn and snap at him. “Baz.” How did this end up between Baz and Mr. Salisbury? “Stay out of it.”

“He asked,” Baz continues over Mr. Salisbury, realizing that Mrs. Salisbury is still watching him, waiting for him to finish. “What to do. And dear Davy said he should just take responsibility for the letter to avoid incriminating the rest of the family.”

Mrs. Salisbury yanks her hand out of Mr. Salisbury’s hands as if they are on fire.

“I did no such thing,” Mr. Salisbury’s eyes flash, and his hand tightens into a fist.

Baz’s eyes flash back. “Simon offered, and you accepted with no protest.”

“What?” I hear Penny mutter faintly.

“God,” I try to interject, “Stay _out_ of it.” But no one’s listening to me, except for Baz– the corner of his mouth twitches and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look my way.

Mr. Salisbury starts forward. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.” His fists are clenched tight, and from the force of his steps, he’s ready to use them.

Baz just tips his chin up. The joyless smile that makes my chest ache hasn’t left his face. “I’ve never been welcome anywhere, old man.” 

Baz can’t even _fight._

I’m in front of him before I know what I’m doing, which is stupid. I don’t care about Baz.

“Move, Snow,” Baz hisses, because Mr. Salisbury is almost around the table at this point.

“Stay out of it,” I hiss back. Am I really going to fight Mr. Salisbury? For _Baz?_

The answer ends up being no.

Something stops him– a hand grabs his shoulder and turns him about. Mrs. Salisbury’s face is stone cold. “ _You’ve_ outstayed your welcome.”

I watch, speechless, as she drags him out the door. He gives a good fight, but she doesn’t let go. She’ll come back to us, because we are what she lives for. 

I never knew she was so _strong_.

“Were you going to fight him for me?” There’s an amused tone to Baz’s voice.

I hate the way Baz can read me. 

“Shut up,” I snap. I turn to Penny. “We need to talk.” 

She nods. We need to talk _away from Baz_ , because I’m sure we’re both agreed: whatever we’re about to do will be warning Shepard, at best, and illegally breaking him out, at worst, as soon as we can find out where he is.

“No,” Baz says.

“Yes,” I say automatically. “Sit down and maybe try to be at least one-percent decent. Shepard is _seventeen_ , the same as you or me.”

Baz looks away from me. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he almost looked guilty. It must be the shadows. Baz wouldn’t feel guilty about a single thing, not unless it came back to hurt him later– then he might regret it. But anyway, this isn’t his fault. Or it is, sort of, transitively, but it’s directly Mr Salisbury’s fault.

“You said he was your friend?” Baz splays his hand against the wall, as if steadying himself. His fingers are white against the dark wood, and in the shadow, his gray eyes look black again.

I guess it could be _associating with the Patriots_ or something, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a criminal charge. And I’ve already admitted it. I set my jaw and stare him down. “Yeah. What of it?”

Baz opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. 

I wait.

“He’ll die,” he says finally.

We know this. This is not news. Baz looks pained, as if he meant to say something else, stops leaning against the wall, taking a half step towards me.

Penny hovers, seemingly torn between the desire to pulling me out the door to talk to me in private and curiosity. 

I’m curious too. But not that curious. 

“Bye, Baz.” 

There’s nothing good about him– _of course_ he’d listen in on us. We need to get far away from him before we say a word about what we’re going to do. If we _can_ do anything.

I want to get out of this house and find him and free him. And apologise over and over– _Mr Salisbury_ turned him in. _Mr Salisbury_. 

Baz slumps down on the sofa– he _never_ slumps. When he turns his face up to watch us leave, he looks rather resigned. 

“Stay,” I tell him just in case, as if he’s a bloody dog, before closing the door. He probably won’t– Penny and I will have to make sure we can’t be tailed.

I look at Penny. Her lip is a little bloody because she’s been biting it so hard, and her eyes are fixed on the door. 

“He’ll follow us,” she says. “We’re obviously planning something, and he’ll not let that go.”

I look at Penny. “He’s sitting right now,” I say. “He can’t see us right now.”

She grins at me, and we run. 

I know which of our neighbors are Loyalists, and which are Patriots– we’re friends with most of the ones who are on our side. We cut through their yards, disregarding the tight streets in favor of simply getting away from the house as quickly as possible. 

Because we don’t want Baz to be able to tail us and– oh all right– because it’s _fun_. 

Penny is _fast._

I’ve always known Penny’s fast, but running beside her like this, I realize she can almost keep pace with me. Her hair spills behind her, the red ends looking as if they glow in the lamplight, and she gathers it up in her hands, still running. 

By the time we make it to a grassy hill, bordered by an easily jumpable wooden fence, we’re both panting. It’s wide open and rather far from our house, and flat on all sides, so we can see anyone who comes near. 

It’s not public, obviously. 

This place has the air of being upkept, and in the distance, across the grass, a large, dark-looking house looms. It’s the kind of thing a younger me might be afraid of, because it looks sort of haunted.

Still, no one’s out in the fields (except for half a dozen lost-looking goats) and if someone comes to kick us off the property, I figure we’ll just run. 

“Shepard,” Penny says.

“Shepard.”

“Mr. Salisbury,” Penny says.

“Mr. Salisbury.”

She stares out at the big, black house a distance away. “I can’t believe him. What’ll we do?”

“Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” I stare too. It looks like someone lives there maybe, but not many. Like, it isn’t falling apart, but it looks empty anyway. “Mrs Salisbury won’t let him back in.”

“Obviously.” Penny rolls her eyes and shoves at me, sounding distant. “Not in a million years. He’ll probably have to live on the street.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Dunno if that’s legal.” 

She’ll do it anyway, I think. Mr. Salisbury won’t report it. He’ll probably skip town and try to avoid all law institutions for the rest of his life, if the way he acted tonight gives any hint to what he’s really like. I feel as if I’m relearning him all over again. I thought he was a Patriot. _So much of him_ was a Patriot– if he doesn’t stand for the revolution, what’s left? Just himself.

“Shepard.”

“Yeah.” Penny scuffs her shoe against the ground. “You’re thinking of breaking him out of jail, aren’t you?”

“’Course.”

Penny hums. Her loose hair flies into her face from the wind, flashing red, and she turns away from the house so she’s facing into the wind instead of away from it. “We could get caught. Mrs. Salisbury surely won’t let us go.”

“There isn’t much else we can do, is there?” I know she wants to say _let him stay in jail._ Afterall, actually breaking someone out of jail? Pretty much impossible. But even though it’s the logical option, she doesn’t say it. Neither do I. 

Neither of us are going to give up.

“Mr. Salisbury turned him in,” she sighs. “We can’t just…”

That’s just it, isn’t it? The tie we have to Mr. Salisbury– it makes me feel practically _responsible._ He’s our… well not our guardian, but he may as well have been. 

“He’s also our friend.” She never actually _said_ they were friends yet, but she wouldn’t have kept going to the tavern with me if she didn’t want to see Shepard. “And the things Shepard worked on…”

“Death sentence,” Penny says. She sighs again, deeply, and closes her eyes. “There’s nothing we know, Simon. Which jail, which cell, how to even start.”

“I mean, the minutemen have rumors, you know. How to free someone.” I rub my shoulder where I’d lean my musket, if I had it with me. “I could ask around.”

Penny shakes her head. “Rumors aren’t enough.”

“You don’t _know_ that. Maybe someone’s actually done it!” I turn to her. “They can tell us how.”

“It starts,” Penny says, “With knowing where he’s being kept. We don’t have a clue. There are dozens of jails in Boston. We can ask for him under the excuse of bringing him food, I think.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” She looks at me. “We’re legally traitors to the Crown, not prisoners of war. So… rights are different, you know.”

“I hear they’re starting to use prison ships a lot more,” Penny says after a pause. She’s right, of course. I didn’t want to say it. “They die pretty quickly in there.”

“He won’t be in one,” I say with more certainty than I feel. “Usually those are prisoners taken in battles and things. He’s more of a political prisoner, I guess you might say.” 

It’s weird saying it, because he’s only seventeen, but he _is_. He connects so many different people to the cause, it’s mind-boggling to think about. Which isn’t to say he’s a bad fighter– he’s the faster reload of the two of us, and I’m certainly not bad– but the impact he has is decidedly more in his network than it is on the field. 

He’s actually never fought– he told me. _Neither have I_ , I said, and he grinned. _The siege, though. Thomas wants us to fight soon._ He’d been panting– we were pulling autillery up in preparation for the fortification around Boston, and he stopped to catch his breath. _Yeah,_ he said _we’ll get a real fight soon. General Thomas says we’ll be ready by the end of February._

Well it’s nearly the end of February now…

“Penny,” I say.

I can’t go on not-telling her forever, even though I’ve been trying not to think about it for a while, and because with Baz around, it’s hard to get a word in privately. _This is the best time to tell her,_ I think. _You’re completely alone and no one is spying around corners, so you can have a real conversation._ It doesn’t alleviate the heaviness in my gut.

She looks at me. I’m staring out at the tall, imposing house so I don’t look at her. She stares out at the tall, imposing house. Then she looks back at me. “Simon?” Her voice is flat and apprehensive at once.

“Thomas says we’re going to fight to end the occupation soon,” I say. “He says… well, he said at the end of February. So early March, at the latest, if we’re not ready.” I turn to catch her gaze, which burns into me even when I’m not looking at her. I can feel her processing the information and moving from shock to fury frighteningly quickly. “We’re pretty close to ready, Pen.”

Her hands fist in the short grass, tearing it up. 

“Maybe you should stick around to help Shepard,” she suggests, her voice urgent and hard. This is what it sounds like when she panics– she never lets it affect her thinking, but you can hear the edge in her voice. I probably should’ve told her earlier, since I’ll have to leave so soon. “We need to free him.”

“You were just saying that will take time,” I remind her, “And the chances of us pulling it off with the information we have is tiny. Of _course_ I want to try, but Shepard would want me to fight.”

“I know, but– _Shepard._ ”

I know. And I don’t want to leave him, but I can’t _do_ anything about him, and I feel useless thinking like that, and I want to do _something_ Shepard would approve of until I can do something to help Shepard, and right now, there’s nothing I can do to help Shepard. 

“If we end the British occupation, think of how much easier it will be to free him,” I say, but the fact still stands that the number of jails won’t change with the number of redcoats prowling the streets. The number of cells, the difficulty of finding any papers indicating where he’s being kept… 

It’s rather hopeless.

We’d need _information_ , not just will…

“Penny,” I say, “Baz is obviously a spy. I mean, not a _spy_ , really, since he’s not lying about which side he’s on, but he’s an informant, so…”

Penny is watching me, brushing dirt of her dress from where she’d smeared her hands after pulling up grass. The grass is short, and it’s hard to grab enough of it to yank it out, so there’s dirt all over her hands. “You want me to see if he knows anything? He’s not going to tell us. If anything, he’ll give me false information.”

“No,” I say, “No, just follow him, if you can manage, while I’m gone.” I scuff my shoe against the soft dirt of the hill. “I might be gone for a while.”

Penny flares up. “If you die–”

“I’m not going to _die_ ,” I say, and then, “Probably,” so that I don’t jinx it. “We’re pretty far away. It’s not in shooting range; we’re using canons. We’ve got the high ground.”

“So you want me to keep an eye on Baz and see if I can find any information from _him_?” Penny looks skeptical. “I don’t think information usually travels _down_ the chain. Not unless he’s particularly close to the top of it.”

I slump. “I don’t know. I think it’s our best bet. Maybe you could follow him and see where he goes.”

“That might be rather hard,” Penny says, her eyes brightening, and she sits up straighter– she always loves a good puzzle, same as I always like to get my hands on a task. It makes us feel as if we’re making things a little better, in our own way, I think. “But I reckon I could try. But even if I find out where he’s going… shall I break in at night? Shall I slaughter them all in their beds? I don’t expect anything important to be left _lying about_.” 

Here she looks at me pointedly, but she’s laughing about it too, her eyes sparkling. We’re both happier knowing we’ve got something to do.

“Shut up,” I mutter, smiling back. “I guess he didn’t find _that_ letter, or he’d have turned it in by now.”

“I’ll do whatever seems best,” Penny decides, “With whatever I find out. You don’t suppose Basilton himself has anything hidden around in his things, do you?”

“I don’t think so, but it doesn’t hurt to check anyway.”

We stare at the house for a little longer. She shivers in the night air– the snow from this morning has melted, leaving rather wet ground, but the air is still cold. It smells of fresh grass, sharp and clean after a snowfall. I offer her my outer layer, and she pulls it around her. 

“Without Shepard, how will you know when to leave for Dorchester?”

“I’m actually in the outer-Boston cohort.” I pull a strand of grass from her curling hair. “And I won’t. I’ll probably leave early, just to be safe. There will be men there, even before we’re supposed to begin fire, and I can stay with them.”

“Mmm.” Penny half-smiles at me, her eyes twinkling. “And Mrs. Salisbury?”

“God,” I shove her shoulder, shivering at the thought of it. “Don’t make me think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's left comments! It's thanks to you that I've found it in me to find this thread of plot.


	11. I'm past patiently waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz finally decides what he wants... but it may be too late. 
> 
> Or perhaps he's only chosen because he knows it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did extend the fic to 19 chapters... yeah.

**BAZ**

Snow has officially ruined my life. 

I cannot think straight.

I _know_ I want to go back to England and I _know_ there’s no feasible way to be with him and I _know_ that even if there was, I’d never win him over after the way I deliberately set my chances on fire and hurtled them straight into the sun and then watched them burn.

My heart sees all of this and still wants Snow more than it wants to go home, and it’s messing with my mind. I hate it when my heart and my mind fight, but my heart has never _won_ before.

It’s winning now.

I’m in my Father’s house again. It has been a few weeks, after all, and while he may not be expecting any new information– I’m certainly not going to give him any new information– he’s sure to gloat long enough for my ears to fall off. 

I hear they disbanded the newspaper. I pretend it wasn’t my fault.

The sharp brightness of midday sun glancing off of early morning snow is blinding, so I step away from the window, letting a servant take my bright red coat and running over what I’ll say in my head if he asks if I have anything else.

He won’t _expect_ anything else. 

He won’t.

He’s got Snow’s seventeen-year-old friend in jail, and a hugely influential semi-underground newspaper operation stopped. That’s got to be enough to let me off the hook for a little longer. 

“Hey,” I stop the servant with my coat from leaving with a word, “Where’s my father?”

The servant eyes the plate of tea by my bedside ( _Why do I have a bedside if I’ll never stay overnight?_ I wonder, but I know: Father wants somewhere to stuff me, out of his way, until he can attend to me.)

“An overlong meeting, I expect, sir,” the servant gives me a slight bow. “He was scheduled to be back half an hour ago, but debates always run over the expected time.” He bows lower this time, with finality to it, and hurries out. 

I don’t think he likes talking to me. No one does.

“Alright,” I say slowly to myself, softly, and then I look at the pristine covers of my bed, where there’s a finer-woven waistcoat I’m supposed to put on to make my father happy. “Alright,” I say, louder. I’m glad my voice sounds sure. I can almost convince myself I _am_ sure.

I think of Snow’s face as he said, _try to be at least one-percent decent. Shepard is seventeen._

Maybe I _am_ sure. 

I may not have explored this house in the colonies much, but I’ve used the latrines, and I slept here the day before he sent me off to the Salisburys’. I know where my father’s office is.

It looks neat when you first step in: books are shelved, supplies are in organized spaces on the shelves and there’s a map tacked up on the wall, showing the area of Boston and the veins of the city: large roads, blocked by the colonists’ siege; and the ship routes the British forces have resorted to in order to get supplies to the troops occupying Boston.

It’s different seeing it now. I have no choice but to respect the revolutionaries. They’re blocking land access to Boston, and by God, it’s working. I can see how they’ve arranged themselves, and I can feel it in me– what they’re trying to accomplish, and the heady rush of knowing they’re actually getting things done. They have an impact and a plan, and they may be a mess, but they are not rioters and fools– not all of them anyway. 

I trace down the road where the Friday market had been, and then down the tiny little turns to the Salisbury’s street. It’s too small for me to pinpoint their house, but I pretend I can see Simon in there, struggling his way through a book, his lip bitten in frustration and his hand in his curly hair. My heart hiccups in my chest and I drop my hand.

This is going to get me nowhere; I shove Snow out of my mind and look down at my father’s desk.

My father’s desk is where all the mess is. He’s got letter strewn over his desk, papers and papers and papers, most of which I know he’ll miss. Plans and things like that I can’t take, because he’ll need them and notice they’re gone immediately. 

But information and updates, unopened letters he probably doesn’t even remember he received… 

I push aside rustling piles of paper, none of them stacked neatly, scanning them quickly for the stamp at the corner that I know means it’s an informative notice– the sort of thing that lets him know what came of some scheme he pulled, but don’t pertain to any future efforts.

 _Shepard,_ I look for _Shepard, Shepard…_

There it is. 

It’s several sheets, actually, with Shepard’s name at the top in looping script, and below it, full name, physical description– brown-skinned, short-haired, skinny (and a scrawling, handwritten note from an officer: “overly talkative”) and right below that, _location._

Whelk’s Prison, near the Old South Church. Not an hour’s ride from here, and closer to the Salisbury’s house than my father’s. 

I’ve seen it many times in passing, going to market (though I rarely go to market; it’s so crowded and loud) or in the coach on the way here. It’s a beast of a prison, all thick stone walls and shockingly full jail cells, the men shoved up in close quarters and all of them filthy. I don’t think they’re even provided the resources to bathe. I can’t imagine a seventeen-year-old in those cells making it out alive. I can’t imagine a seventeen-year-old in those cells, full stop.

Attached to it is a page on Snow (“Simon,” the paper reads, since Snow is not in his full legal name– he doesn’t really _have_ a full legal name)– the short version of his information. As far as I know, there’s only one longer version: the one in my possession, from when he gave it to me at the beginning of the assignment. 

Snow’s not a big enough project or name for my father to care much about keeping multiple copies of his information. He’s a _potential asset_ but in no way is he a _threat_ (if he didn’t want to make my life hell, he probably would’ve taken Snow into jail and been done with it).

I fold it up tight– Shepard’s information and Snow’s along with it– making sure they’re creased as crisply as possible before slipping them deep into my trouser’s pocket, so they don’t make any obvious protrusions in the fabric, though I doubt my father will be looking. He suspects me of being soft. He doesn’t suspect me of being disloyal. 

There’s a letter under those papers, unopened, and (judging from how many stacks of paper I shoved aside to get this deep) from quite a while ago. 

I don’t know the address– I’ve gotten to know Boston pretty well, and Daphne would always tell me I picked things up quickly, so I’m surprised this isn’t from a place I know of– but that makes sense once I look over the rest of it and realize this isn’t from an institution of the Crown, the way most of Father’s mail is. This is from a residency, and the handwriting tickles at the back of my mind.

It’s proper and connected, like calligraphy, except that it’s jagged too. It would look nice– _elegant_ , even– if not for how angry it looks. The black ink looks almost grey, as if the writer was going too quickly to let the tip rest long enough for much ink to sink into the envelope, or too impatient to dip the quill again and decided to keep on writing.

It’s Aunt Fiona’s, of course.

And the address is in Boston.

I feel as if my entire stay here in the American colonies have been letters and notes and written words: Snow hiding them, then me hiding them, David Salisbury hiding his essays, apparently Shepard hiding a whole newspaper operation… well, now it is no different. 

This letter won’t leave my mind as it sits in my pocket and I head home, having gotten nothing but boasting and congratulations from my father and not a fresh demand for information, to my relief.

I have Aunt Fiona’s address and she’s nearby, of all things, I have temporarily delayed any direct harm to Snow and temporarily satisfied my father, I have information regarding Snow’s beloved friend in my pocket… I could almost be happy if not for how much Snow clearly hates me. 

I don’t blame him, really. It is, in some ways, my fault that this Shepard has ended up in jail and though I’ve never met the boy, the idea of a boy my age in a place like that makes me sick to the stomach.

“What…” Penelope is weighing her words, poking at her food half-heartedly. “What happened to Mr. Salisbury?”

Lucy, who is cutting chicken with frightening precision, looks up, her expression set as stone. “Gone,” she says with finality, “And not coming back.” She swallows hard and lays down her fork and knife, seeming to soften. “Far away, and safe,” she adds softly, and she seems glad of it, even though it’s obvious she doesn’t think he deserves it. 

It’s how persistent love can be, even in the face of atrocities. It’s admirable which side of her wins.

Snow bites his lip hard and nods, a far more peaceful reaction than I would’ve expected from him. He’s evidently got something else on his mind. Something that, judging from the looks I see among Penelope and Snow over dinner, Lucy Salisbury doesn’t know about. 

_I_ barely notice. I’m so caught in wondering when I’ll find the time to slip out and track down this address, and how I’ll get Shepard’s information to Snow without him suspecting I’m “up to something.” A valid concern of his, but rather inconvenient for the situation I now find myself in.

“Worried about the house?” I ask Snow, my voice low. “Waiting for them to seize the house for lack of a man to hold the property?”

I try to sound as if I’m taunting, though my heart’s not in it, and you can hear it in my voice. I don’t want to hurt him anymore, but it’s rather too late for that, isn’t it? I didn’t know if I wanted to dig my grave; I dug it just in case… 

And now I don’t want to lie in it– but not lying in it isn’t going to bring me back to life. 

From the way he jerks around to look at me, something sparking quickly in his eyes, he hadn’t even thought of it. 

He sounds alarmed when he insists, “No one will know we don’t have someone– he won’t file for divorce or separation.” His face twists miserably. “He’s probably too much of a coward to approach any systems of law.”

I have to agree with him on that one. I’ve always thought him horrid, and I can see that Snow’s coming around to it as well, though slowly. I imagine he’d be coming to terms with it much slower if it weren’t for this Shepard. 

I shake my head. “What about taxes and the like? He won’t sign off anything if he’s not here.”

Snow and Penelope both look to Lucy Salisbury, Penelope considering and Snow with his mouth half open, hopeful and worried at once. I keep looking at Snow. 

He gets his hair cut every now and again, keeping it as short as– well, as a soldier’s hair: close to his head, spilling out in curls at the top, but not so long that it gets in his eyes. 

Lucy says something placating that doesn’t mean a thing, something like _we’ll figure it out, I’m sure we’ll be alright._

He must have gotten it cut _today,_ while I was gone. I know because his hair was normal this morning. It wasn’t even getting too long. I wonder why they cut it.

Snow turns to Penelope and catches me staring. He shoots me a glare, which is rather offset by the way he runs his hand through his hair awkwardly, clearly unused to the length. 

Penelope sighs and murmurs apologetically, “I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to eat.”

Lucy Salisbury frowns (what a mother she is) and nods. “We’ll be sure to make a big breakfast tomorrow, then,” she promises. 

Pelelope stumbles by Snow’s chair, kicking the leg of it hard as she goes by, scooping up my plate without giving me so much as a glance– I wasn’t hungry and I served myself barely anything, so I finished quickly. 

I dip my head to her in thanks, and she looks as if she might break the plate over my head instead of bringing it to the kitchen. I raise an eyebrow. She goes. Snow glares at the back of my head as I leave the table. 

I’m never getting anywhere with Snow. I’m certainly not going to end up _reading_ to him again. Ever in my life. 

I pretend this thought doesn’t hurt as much as it does and fetch our book– _my_ book from the bedroom. I’ll read it, just to see how it ends. Even though I’m certain there’s only one ending. I’ll read it alone.

Our hero is in jail, having gotten caught with his princess, and he’s _not_ having a good time of it. The jail sounds far more hospitable than the ones here in the colonies, but it sounds brutal nonetheless, and I don’t envy him.

I don’t envy the princess, either, who’s just now realizing she’ll never be happy without him (what a bunch of melodramatic fools). Only it’s too late now– he’s been caught. They didn’t run away because she didn’t want to live the sort of life he had, and now here they are, and she wishes she’d taken the offer when he posed it. 

_She shouldn’t have flirted with the Earl’s son,_ I think _, and kept that marriage on the table if she didn’t love him_. But I understand her anyway. I would’ve married the Earl’s son. He’s rich. His future is secure. 

There are only about a hundred pages left, I notice as I turn the page. There simply isn’t space for there to be any sort of happily ever after at this point. I _knew_ this was a tragedy. 

Snow and Penelope are flitting off to Penelope’s room (how improper), Snow having finished his food in record time. I wonder what they’re doing– it all seems rather suspicious. They stand for a moment outside her bedroom door, their heads close together. They’re whispering about something. His hand rests lightly on her waist, friendly and familiar.

I swallow and go back to reading. 

I read nearly until the light is gone from the sky, until I can’t see the words across the page anymore. In my defense, the story is… well, unpredictable, I suppose. I’m not so riveted by the book that I don’t notice Snow slipping something into Lucy’s dresser through the doorway of the Salisburys’ bedroom (though it’s a close thing).

I stare at the ceiling after Snow and I have both gone to bed and blown out the candles, waiting for his breath to even out. This is what my nights have become lately: me, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about everything I can’t grasp, everything I don’t understand. What am I going to do? Slip out when he falls asleep and steal the letter on Lucy’s dresser? 

I feel as though I should, but why would I do that? I don’t need anything more on Snow…

Yet.

I remember again I have no idea how long the newspaper bust is going to keep my father happy before he demands more information from Snow– and if that doesn’t pan out, gets him seized for a hanging. 

I push both that envelope, Aunt Fiona’s letter, and Snow’s always-impending hanging out of my mind. The latter two I can do nothing about right now, and the former I’ll have to wait for.

I think of the book instead.

I’m not quite sure how it turned around so quickly. One moment the hero’s in jail, the next, the princess has gotten him out. She’s packed them both food and clothing, she’s slashed the horse’s ropes and stolen a lanturn. 

No, I know why: she stopped flirting with the Earl’s son and making preparations for her wedding. She stopped kissing up to the king and making arrangements for the union of the castle grounds and the Earl’s estate. She stopped pretending she barely cared for the hero.

She chose a side.

 _That’s why it’s fiction_ , I think. _No one is brave enough to do all of that._

It’s pitch black in the hallways by the time Snow drops off, because there are no windows in the hallway for moonlight to reach through. I can always say I’m off to relieve myself if Lucy runs into me while I’m creeping about, peering into the living room to see what she’s up to.

She’s awake. She usually is this time of night. She’s like a ghost– so quiet, so partial to the times of day when no one will disturb her. I think she prefers the solitude, even as she cares for her children very much– for that’s what they are, really. Her children. 

There’s a bright patch of light around her, making her look all the more ethereal. She looks like an angel’s mother. I suppose, then, the angel would be Snow. The light is a combination of a candle she has lit and the curtains she’s pulled open to let in the light of the moon. She’s sewing, a long thread barely visible from where I am looping through a needle; if that length of thread is anything to go by, she’ll be at it for a while.

It’s easy to open the envelope– it isn’t sealed. It looks to be put in an envelope for ceremony and appearance. I get the feel that it’s important (otherwise, he would’ve just _said_ it, instead of leaving Lucy a bloody _letter_ ) and oddly enough, it feels more heartfelt and real, slipped into this crisp, white envelope, no address needed. Just one room down. There’s a lightly drawn flower in one corner. It looks almost like an absentminded doodle: a rose. 

My stomach flutters nervously. My heart goes cold my chest. I get the acute sense that Snow is doing something very final. I feel like an absolute monster for hoping that this is Penelope’s letter.

I’d planned on taking the letter and reading it in the morning, but there’s something building in my chest, stopping me from slipping the letter into the warm folds of my winter night clothes. 

_I have to know_. 

“Ms. Salisbury?” I step out from the dark hallway into the faint light of the candle– I can see the outline of my hands now, and the white of the envelope. 

She doesn’t startle, though she looks surprised to see me. She doesn’t seem the sort who startles at all– I don’t think I’ve ever seen her startle, and I’ve nearly been with this family a year. _A year._ It’s unfathomable that I’ve spent this much time in Snow’s presence. 

“Might I borrow your candle?” I can hardly go back in to my room and take the candle from there. Snow might wake– he’s so easy to disturb in his sleep. “Just for a moment, if you don’t mind. I received a letter from my sister and I– I was afraid it was bad news and didn’t want to open it, but now I’m afraid it’s bad news and I want to open it immediately.”

It’s close enough to the truth that I know I sound earnest. Possibly too earnest. I wish I was only pretending to be afraid. I wish I didn’t care so _damn much_ about Snow.

She moves closer to the window, so as to catch more moonlight, and hold the candle out to me. I take it shakily, unable to bring myself to put the letter down for a moment to take it. I get a little wax on the corner of the envelope, but I manage to make it to the table, far enough that she cannot have a chance at reading the letter, and set down the candle there without a hitch. 

It’s easy to slip out of the envelope: a paper folded in half.

My stomach plummets. It’s Snow’s handwriting.

I tell myself I’m jumping to conclusions anyway: what does an envelope mean anything? It could just be a… 

My eyes jump immediately to a phrase, scratched out carefully in Snow’s hand. 

_I know you do not want me to fight. I’m sorry. I do not even think it will be very dangerous. I cannot stand by and do nothing, and the fight has come here so I am finally able to do something. _

I curse silently. _Of course._ He’s always wanted to be useful, and to do something that mattered, and from the way his eyes have gone to the door over and over during the past couple days, I’m beginning to think he feels guilty for Davy’s betrayal. I think that’s the stupidest thing he could possibly feel, but it doesn’t make it any less real.

 _I’m leaving tomorrow. By the time you read this, it’ll be tomorrow for me._

Lucy goes to bed late, and leaves the candle on the mantle; she wouldn’t see until the next morning. She gets up later than Snow and Penelope because they’re the houseworkers: starting fires, cooking breakfast before she’s even up. Snow… Snow plans to be _gone_ by then.

Snow signs off with _your rosebud boy_ , which would make my heart tumble for how sweet he is, but I barely notice. 

Snow is leaving.

To _fight._

I don’t care if “he doesn’t think it’ll be dangerous,” he’s an idiot, and terrible at assessing risk. 

I barely have the presence of mind to leave my face blank as I return the candle to Lucy Salisbury. I feel as if I’m hearing my voice from far off as I tell her no, my sister didn’t have any bad news. 

I slip the envelope into my pocket. I can’t leave the envelope on, since I got wax on the corner and Lucy will know it’s the same letter. I’ll have to leave the letter on her dresser without an envelope.

I place the letter gently on Lucy’s dresser. I put the empty envelope beneath my bed– I’ll take care of it in the morning because there’s nothing I can do to be rid of it without risking drawing the attention of Lucy Salisbury or waking Snow. 

I stare at the ceiling some more.

I’m woken by a soft thump by my head. It’s dark. The sun isn’t even truly up yet– it’s barely peeking out above the dark shapes of the buildings. Boston is unsettlingly quiet at the crack of dawn, a word I never thought I’d find myself associating with Boston. 

It’s far, far louder than dawn on our quiet estate back in England. I suppose I’ve just gotten used to the city. 

Snow woke me– of course he did. He’s as subtle as a charging horse. 

He’s fumbling his boots on, his fingers clumsy with barely-shaken off sleep, and the thump by my head turns out to have been our book– my book having been knocked by Snow onto my bed in his floundering. 

He freezes. “Baz,” he says, and then closes his mouth. And then opens it again.

My heart stops in my throat.

It comes to me in a rush– last night’s letter, Penelope and him whispering together and going into her room– I see why now: he’s got a huge, bulky bundle of _things_ leaning against his bed, with straps for his shoulders that Penelope surely helped him pack. It’s a wonder I didn’t see it last night. 

He’s _leaving_. 

My heart is breaking. He better not get hurt. It’ll kill me if he gets hurt.

It will kill me just as much if I stop him from doing what he’s always wanted to do and– what, turn him in instead? 

_There’s nothing I can do_ , I think, and then, _there’s nothing I_ want _to do that will help_.

I could threaten him to stay; I could say that I have incriminating information about Penelope, or threaten to convict the whole family. And then what? He would hate me _even more_ , which I can’t bear to imagine, and he’d always feel restrained, restricted, unhappy. I’ve seen the way he lights up when he talks about the revolution, I’ve seen the way he moves with purpose and determination. 

I’ve seen the simmering anger in the tightness of his shoulders when he walks by a British soldier. When he looks at me. 

This revolution means so _much_ to him… and it’s beginning to mean something to me, too. 

I don’t want him to think back to the siege of Boston and think that he was useless, or remember all the things he couldn’t do, and I… I know he’s been miserable. I know I’ve _made_ him miserable, preventing him from everything he could be doing for the revolution.

Looking at him now, my heart races, reaching for him. Running for him, an infinite distance it will never cross, and a destination it will never stop running towards anyway. 

Fighting for this cause, for this _revolution_ , for this irresistible idea of freedom is what he’s wanted to do for _forever_.

I’ve been staring at his blue eyes for too long. 

“Far be it from me to stop you from squandering your own life,” I try to sneer, but it comes out a murmur.

He blinks at me, and then his face closes, and his eyes fire up again, brilliantly angry. He gets up, slings his pack over his shoulder, and walks off towards Penelope’s room. He’s dressed, I realize. Of course he is– he wouldn’t have been putting his shoes on otherwise.

_He’s leaving, he’s leaving._

I stay in my bed, halfway sitting, propped on my elbow. The book is still on my pillow. My heart is still pounding. 

I’m still frozen. 

And then I’m moving. 

I get dressed faster than I’ve ever gotten dressed in my life, possibly because I forgo smoothing everything out and tucking in all the ends. All I care about is whether it’s on. 

And then I’m in the foyer, just as Snow’s hand is reaching for the door. 

I don’t want him to leave without me saying anything. I don’t think there’s a single thing in the world I could say that would _change_ anything, but I suppose that’s not the point.

“Snow,” I say quietly, but urgently. I don’t want to wake Lucy.

He stops, freezing again, his eyes immediately going to Lucy’s bedroom door. It’s shut tight, and there are no noises coming from it– she’s asleep.

“Calm down,” I hear myself saying, “I’m not going to stop you.” I cross the distance between us, just a few shaky steps. 

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

I’ve memorized the moles on his face, now, but I look at them anyway, intently. He may be gone weeks. He may get hurt, he may run away to the army and stay there– gone _forever_. I want to have this moment. 

“I just…” I’m staring. I’ve memorized him, and I want to again. The curl of the loose curls at the top of his head, the curve of his lashes. The shape of his lips and the blue brilliance of his eyes. “Er… Don’t…”

He’s still watching me, without moving, less afraid and more considering. I can feel color flooding my cheeks. My heart is stuck in my throat. I reach for his hand with the free one I have– the other is still clutching our book– so I don’t have to look at him. The callouses brush against my skin, rough. They’re strong hands. 

I kiss his knuckles.

And then he pulls back and it doesn’t matter because I drop his hand like it’s on fire and stare at it again, instead of looking up at him. My face is still hot, and my heart is speeding again. I feel as if I’m dying.

“Don’t die,” I say, my voice wavering like a child’s. I clear my throat and try to steady my voice. It doesn’t work. “I mean, I don’t want you to die.”

He’s openly gaping now. I don’t know why I even glanced up at him, except that I’m sure I couldn’t have resisted the urge to drink him in while I still could if I tried to resist. I didn’t. Now I’m stuck in his eyes again.

They’re confused (his eyes, that is) and a little bit suspicious. 

“Here,” I mutter, and shove the book at him. It’s a wonder I can speak at all– my lips are tingling and they don’t feel as if they’ll ever stop. “You can read it.”

He looks as if he couldn’t find a sentence to say if it came and introduced itself. “Er… did you finish it?” he manages finally.

“No.” 

His eyes go to the red ribbon marking our spot. “Is it dangerous? Explosive?” He’s inspecting the spine doubtfully. “Did you do something to it?”

“No,” I say again. “No. I’m not up to anything.” I want to add _you idiot_ , but I think it wouldn’t exactly help my case.

“Sure you’re not,” Snow mutters, peering at me. “You kissed my bloody hand.” 

My knees threaten to give out. I don’t even mind that he doesn’t believe me. That’s beside the point. I want to say, _For once I’m not pretending. In case you decide to stay with the army. In case this is the last time I see you, I am just this once not trying to pretend I don’t love you_. 

I say, “Good luck.”

Snow seems to have figured out that the book isn’t dangerous, not unless you use it to hit someone on the head with, so he slips it into his pack. “Thanks,” he says, sounding rather thrown. Whether he’s thanking me for the _good luck_ or for the book, I can’t tell.

We stand there, still, for a moment. I’m trying desperately to commit him all to memory, from the way he stands straight and strong under that huge pack of supplies right down to the way his boots are clean because he doesn’t want to get the floor dirty for Penelope to clean up. 

And then he’s moving. He squares his shoulders and steps out the door. And shuts the door behind him.

And it’s just me standing there, still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left comments! I'm honestly much better at judging the quality of most of my fics—but for this one, I feel blind. 
> 
> It's nice to find out where I am!


	12. Wait for it, wait for it, wait...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny may be more perceptive and capable than the two boys combined, but you didn't hear it from me.

**PENNY**

I don’t think Basilton knows I’m here. He doesn’t notice me, standing with a piece of goodbye gingerbread I was going to give Simon in my hand. (It’s okay, though, he’s got my goodbye letter, and I gave him one last night. We made a fresh batch after Davy left. It felt like the thing to do.)

If I’m honest, I don’t think he notices anything but himself right now, and maybe the closed door. 

He’s sideways to me now, sitting down right there on the floor, slowly, his back flat against the back of the sofa. He does it as if he can’t manage to stay standing. Shaky-limbed. He’s so flushed, I’d be hurrying to check him for a fever if I didn’t see him kiss Simon’s hand like that.

I don’t know what he’s _doing_. 

I don’t think he’s acting. 

I don’t think he _knows_ I’m here. 

He presses his fingers against his mouth gently, and _smiles_. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. Not like that.

He’s got to be acting. 

I clear my throat. “I haven’t cleaned the floor in a while, though you’re welcome to sit there anyway, if you wish.”

He jerks around, his eyes wide and jumps to his feet. He’s a good actor, I guess, because he flushes even deeper and his eyes flick to the door. He looks genuinely startled. “I– Penelope. I was just… out to think. And to see… see the sunrise.” He turns a full semi-circle from the direction he’d been facing, pointing at the living room window that Lucy likes to sew at.

“I think you’re a good liar,” I tell him, “Except when you’re put on the spot.” I think back to when he told us he’d ‘ _lost the second piece of evidence_ ’ on Davy. I still don’t know what that was about, but the world’s most oblivious person would be able to tell he was lying then. “Your improvised lies could use some work.”

He looks as if he’s trying to scowl at me, but his mouth– still smiling– won’t cooperate. I don’t know what to make of him. “Aren’t you meant to be getting together a breakfast for the mistress?” He glances down and something flashes over his face. “Is that gingerbread for Snow? What a pair of saps you two are.”

I eat the gingerbread– it’s sweet and crumbly, just the right bit of snap to it. I’d like to give myself a nice pat on the back. The ginger taste is a _little_ weak, because we had to stretch it. “It’s mine now,” I reply, just to be a bother. 

“Unless,” Basilton continues as if he hasn’t heard me, “You’re going off to war, too. You’re a medic, aren’t you? Snow could use one, I’m sure.”

“Simon is a good fighter,” I reply. I’m not going to war. I’m not one for fighting, or war, so it wasn’t as if I was so against it when Simon told me to stay behind. “And I’m not trained. Only well read.”

 _Mrs. Salisbury will need someone_ , Simon had said. He calls them by the titles, even after all these years. I think this is partly because there’s a part of him that always is trying to be the least of a burden he can be, to “earn his place,” or show respect to the people who took him in. I don’t know how to tell him Lucy wouldn’t ever let him go. _Plus, I need you here to get information from Baz._

Small chance, but a chance we decided to take. For Shepard, I think any chance is enough for Simon to give it a go. For Shepard, I’m beginning to think any chance is enough for _me_ to give it a go. 

It’s a completely irrational hope. I _know_. But just possibly, Basilton is in possession of a hint. Who knows? Davy turned traitor. Anything could happen.

“Better than nothing,” Basilton insists. “Does the Continental Army have doctors?”

I peer at him. “I know you’re not a soldier, but do you know _anything_ about the war?” 

The only people I can think of who aren’t in a close vicinity to the war– close enough to know basic things– are really, really rich people, and British people who aren’t in the army. Or really, really rich British people who aren’t in the army. 

“And,” I add, “More importantly, it’s _Simon._ What do you care?” I feel as if I’ve already taken Simon’s place. _He’s up to something, he’s up to something._

Basilton’s face goes blank. “I’m just trying to evaluate his chances of survival.” He smirks and saunters past me, remarking as he passes, “I hope they’re dreadfully low.”

“That’s not what you told Simon,” I mutter, and, since he’s headed toward the kitchen, I make for Simon’s bedroom. I’ll have to put away his cot. The thought makes the back of my throat ache, but I should get it over with. 

I notice Basilton turning to me with surprise, but I don’t acknowledge him. I’m not sure what he’s playing at– he can’t act that well. Does he really care for Simon? It certainly appears that way, judging from the last ten minutes. It certainly does _not_ appear that way, judging from the last year.

 _No_ , I decide firmly as I pull the sheets off of Simon’s cot and drop them on the strip of floor between the two beds.They’re soft from so many washings, but still rough. _He does not_.

But then what in the world was that just now?

I yank off Simon’s pillowcase and reach down to gather the sheets from the floor when I catch sight of something white poking out from beneath Basilton’s bed. 

Paper.

It’s ridiculous to think it might be anything of use, but it can’t hurt to check. 

I drop the sheets again, and pull the paper out– it’s an envelope, a bit of wax on the corner of it, smooth as if melted and then hardened. It’s the same sort of blank-faced, crisp envelope Simon and I put his goodbye letter to Lucy in… It’s got a little penned rose in the corner– Simon’s nervous doodle as he considered what to write. 

_Nothing makes sense._ If Basilton found Simon’s letter to Lucy, he’d keep it for sure. Perhaps he’s gotten the letter and put it somewhere else and, what, left the envelope under his bed? It seems nonsensical and purposeless, but perhaps there’s something I don’t know.

What I _do_ know is that I need to find that letter– search all his coat pockets, search the whole damn house, or else the moment Simon comes back, Basilton will have Redcoats at our door, correctly charging Simon of fighting against the Crown.

 _Unless_ , I think, _unless they succeed in driving the British out, and they no longer have the place in Boston to be hanging anyone._

I wonder if the jails will still be charged with holding British prisoners if the Redcoats are, indeed, run out of Boston. I shouldn’t think so, but everything moves so slowly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the reaches of Britain’s grasp still lingered in parts, mingling with Revolutionary control here and there. I doubt it would carry to new arrests and accusations.

Right?

I sigh and get back up, pulling the sheets back into my arms, the pillowcase on top of it, and fumbling my way to the laundry, peering over the pile of fabric in my arms. 

Oh, _Simon_. I’ll miss him so much.

If he doesn’t get back, I don’t know what I’ll do.

By the time the sun is shining through the windows properly, enough to read by (Basilton is reading _Common Sense_ , even though I’m sure he’s already read Snow’s copy), I’ve got breakfast on a tray. 

I can tell Lucy’s not up, because she always clatters around a bit when she wakes up. Simon and I like to say that the first five minutes after she gets up are the noisiest parts of her day.

It hurts me to think of her getting up, alone in her room, like any normal day. No one there to say goodbye, nothing. And then stepping out, and finding Simon gone.

I feel as though breakfast in bed might be a good way to soften it, a little. _God,_ I didn’t think Basilton saw us last night– or was paying attention to anything other than that book for hours. He seemed quite absorbed. Possibly the most focused I’ve ever seen him besides when he played those dreadfully mournful tunes on his violin, really. I wouldn’t have just gone and put the letter up on her dresser otherwise.

Now I’ll have to break the news to her– I suppose I’ll make something up and tell her Simon said to tell it to her– I can hardly say he didn’t bother to say goodbye at all, and I can’t say he wrote her a goodbye letter that has ended up in Basilton’s hands either. 

The door is heavy dark wood, but easy to open once I’ve turned the knob. Her curtains are closed when I step in, casting the whole room in a shadow that makes the rest of the house seem bright, because the first thing I do is throw the curtains open to let in the breaking dawn. 

My eyes go automatically to the place on the dresser where we laid the letter last night.

There’s a folded piece of paper there, the same crisp white, stiff paper that Simon wrote his letter on, the kind we save for special occasions because it’s thicker and more expensive.

It doesn’t have an envelope.

“Penelope?”

There’s a rustle of covers. 

“I brought you breakfast,” I murmur, turning to Lucy and trying to push aside the whirlwind in my mind for a second. I’ll give her the tray, and then I’ll look at that paper. Did Basilton write something and put it there in the letter’s place?

“Oh,” Lucy murmurs, sitting up and pushing wild hair back from her face. She’s got the wildest curls, but she pulls it back nice and tame every morning. It’s always sweet to see her in the mornings, before she’s fixed herself up. “Thank you?” 

I suppose I’m easier to read than I’d like, because she can clearly tell something’s on my mind. 

I slide the tray onto her lap: eggs, toast, jam, butter, milk, hot tea, honey, a dish with a few sugar cubes. She wavers on her tea– sometimes she likes milk, sometimes she doesn’t, sometimes she likes it without sugar, other times she wants it too sweet for me to bear.

“Of course.” I open the curtains. We’re both quiet. She’s a quiet one always, but I can feel her studying me. She’s a watcher, and she knows this silence is different from our others. 

I don’t know how to get out of the room with that piece of paper: I prepared the tray well. There’s nothing I could excuse myself to go get. 

In the end, I just mutter, “Sorry,” and leave with no explanation.

My hands are itching to pick up that letter, my mind is racing trying to figure out what Basilton is doing. For heaven’s sake, I can’t seem to connect all the pieces. It would be a solid and enjoyable mystery to solve if it wasn’t Simon and the rest of us on the line.

Lucy, with her wide doe eyes, watches me leave thoughtfully, a touch worriedly, but without a word, her tea cupped close in her hands. 

I snatch the paper off the dresser as I leave.

Basilton’s still in the living room, reading _Common Sense_ in the dawn light. He doesn’t look to have made any progress at all. I wonder if he’s reading, or just staring at the words. Or rereading the page, maybe? I wouldn’t know– he’s acting so oddly.

To be fair, it’s a good page. _Mankind being originally equals in the order of creation, the equality could only be destroyed by some subsequent circumstance_ …

I go into the kitchen, where he can’t see me, and open the folded paper.

It’s… it’s… 

_What?_

What is _happening_? 

It’s obviously the same letter: same words, in Simon’s unmistakeable careful lettering. The way he is, you’d expect him to have the messiest handwriting, but with copying Davy’s writing out into legible words and with his trouble with language itself, everything he writes has a deliberation to it that I don’t think even Basilton, dexterous as he is, could replicate. 

But what’s the _point_ of just reading the letter and putting it back? Evidently he took the envelope because he got wax on it… but why didn’t he _keep_ the letter?

I wonder if Basilton has been this confusing the whole time, and I’ve just left Simon on his own to figure it out, or if he’s just now started to make absolutely no sense. 

_No_ , no. There’s sense in this. Basilton may be an absolute arse– though far more so to Simon than to me– but he’s a reasonable person. There’s reason to what he’s doing, I’m sure, and I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure _him_ out.

He’s had Simon watching him like a hawk this whole time, but he’s never had me paying close attention. 

_I’ll figure him out,_ I tell myself. _I will._

For now, though, I return to Lucy’s bedside with the folded paper. 

She looks up when I come in, her hair unbrushed, but twisted behind her head, out of her face as she eats. The room is bright now, gleaming of the dark wood, catching in her light hair, glinting off the spoon in her hand. She looks almost ominous like that, facing away from the window with her face in shadow. She looks as if she should be the one delivering bad news, not I.

But I hand her the letter anyway, wishing it was still in the envelope. “Simon,” I say because I’m not sure what else to tell her, “It’s from Simon.”

She looks up at me then, her previously sleepy eyes suddenly much sharper, and in the tight line of her mouth I can tell she’s guessed.

She reaches out and takes it anyway, her hands cold to the bone. 

Her hair, twisted up behind her head, uncoils and spills down her shoulder as she reads, and I resist the urge to tuck it up again so it doesn’t get in her tea, even though I know it’s not long enough to. She’s like a mother to me, and my heart aches to watch the pain in her face as she reads the words Simon has written to her. 

She folds it up again when she’s read it, and places it by her teacup. 

She looks so small in her warm woollen night dress, her thick covers pulled tight around her and her hands still cold as if she spent the night outside in the snow. It’s strange to think this is the same woman that threw Davy out of the house and worked early and late haggling prices in the market to feed me when she’d taken me in before I even started working for her, when Premal went off to the army. 

Now she doesn’t even have Davy by her side. _Good riddance,_ I think, and then I feel bad for it, because whoever he turned out to be, he still meant something to her. 

And now Simon has left too. 

“He’ll come back,” I tell her. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. Me? Her? Simon told me again and again last night that it wasn't a dangerous assignment, not really. He wrote it in the letter, too. But it’s _fighting_ , it’s _war_ , and there’s always a chance he won’t come back. “He’s Simon.”

Simon, who always makes it out okay. Simon, who loves Lucy like a mother, who loves me like a sister. He’ll come back.

“Basilton was right,” Lucy murmurs. 

I remember her face when Basilton told her across the dinner table, of Davy’s encouragement to Simon. She’d believed it then. It shouldn’t come as a shock. 

But then, I’d known, too, that Simon would one day go off to fight– there’s no containing someone like him– but to hear him tell me was something else all together. For him to actually go and do it… 

Lucy blinks twice, hard. “He’s evidently gone to fight,” she says in a steadier voice, sitting straighter. She twists her hands together, but her expression is set. “He’ll have to stay fighting, because if he comes back, he’ll be hung.”

I blink. There’s the woman who threw Davy out of the house. Who defended Miss Ebeneza against a few men making fun of her appearance so fiercely that Miss Ebeneza actually smiled for once.

I didn’t even know she’d been paying attention to Basilton and Simon’s endless hassle over Basilton being a British informant.

“They’re trying to end the British occupation of Boston,” I explain. “If they’re successful, there’ll be far fewer Redcoats here, and they won’t be able to make arrests or anything of the like. Boston will be our territory. He’ll be able to come back without being hung.”

If they succeed.

I’m not sure what will happen if they don’t. “He won’t… give up until they end the occupation. Or…” I don’t continue. There’s no use in continuing anyway.

She looks at me, her face more grim than I’ve ever seen it. “We’ll just have to carry on.”

We do.

We carry on like there’s nothing but things to do. Laundry, sewing, knitting, cleaning, going to market.

I don’t go to the printer for Simon– there’s nothing we need to get printed. I don’t go to the tavern that we used to meet Shepard at after the raid of the Friday street market, because Shepard isn’t there to give me anything useful. 

The house is so silent without Davy’s endless revolutionary preaching Basilon’s arguments with Simon. Lucy has never said much, and I don’t have anything to say. And Basilton never spoke much to anyone except for Simon.

We cook too much food. We’re running low on firewood– we’ll have to chop it ourselves or spend extra to buy it chopped already. I never realized how heavy an axe was and I find myself thinking about Simon, swinging the axe down, copying papers, hefting huge sacks of flour. 

After only a few days, missing him hurts like an open wound. The house feels empty.

Basilton watches me bring in the wood– it’s nearly our last, though we have unchopped logs in the back. I throw in a couple logs, and the fireplace sparks and splutters. The end of February is still cold, but the snow is beginning to lighten up, so the wood is drier, and lights quicker. 

“Do you…” he’s reading _Common Sense_. He’s always bloody reading _Common Sense_. While it isn’t strange for him to be reading political pieces, it’s strange for him to linger so long on something written in favor of the revolution. “Do you want help?”

I stare at him. He has never offered to help with anything before, though I’ve seen him do little things like stop to wipe off his feet before coming in. “Sorry?”

He nods towards the fireplace. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re running out of wood. I don’t want the house to get cold.” 

I remember Simon saying, at some point, that Basilton is the coldest person he’s ever met. _Piles of blankets, Penny._

_It’s not like you use them,_ I said, but he’d rolled his eyes. _He uses mine without asking_. 

I suppose that’s a good enough reason to worry about the wood supply, though I’m still thrown by his offer of help. “You can chop wood?”

Basilton sneers at me. “I’m not useless.”

He doesn’t know how to chop wood, but he chops as if he’s watched someone chop wood quite a lot and _almost_ understands the movements. It’s good enough. 

When I’m sure he’s not going to chop off his own arm, I head back inside, shivering. I can hear the _thump, thump_ of the axe, irregular. Not like Simon’s smooth chopping. Bother, I miss him so much.

Basilton’s coat, brilliant red, hangs in the front closet, visible from the sofa where Basilton is always reading, and from the window to the front of our house. But not to the back.

He’s got far too many coats for anyone to own, let alone someone on a soldier’s wages, even if the British army pays far better than the Continental Army. (The Continental Army doesn’t really pay. They’ve got nothing to pay with.) Well, we’ve known he’s from a rich background for a while now.

I check them, one by one. 

I’m thrown by how new his army’s coat is– it’s so unworn, so starched and new. His pockets are stiff, and for a moment I think it’s just new, unworked fabric, but when I unbutton it and slip my hand in I realized that’s not why it’s so rigid.

There’s paper in his pocket. 

Good lord, no one knows how to hide information in this house, myself included.

It’s thin and small– it can’t be more than half a page of flimsy paper.

I slip the paper out of his coat pocket, shove it into my apron pocket, and close the closet– I don’t want to be caught rummaging in his pockets if he comes in soon. The thuds of the axe and the quiet fall of wood still sounds from outside, so I’m safe for now. 

I step into my own room and close the door before unfolding the paper.

When I open it, my heart drops at first, because it’s the handwriting I don’t know as well as Simon's, but I know enough to recognise: a stiff, strong looking cursive. General John Thomas.

Basilton has something directly from John Thomas. 

I thought Simon was back to burning his notes from the General, as he usually did before Basilton broke his arm?

The paper reads: _Milton, storehouse. Roxbury, west end safe house. Chelsea, northeast tavern and secondary storehouse._ _Lexington and Concord._

They’re all places with revolutionary centers, and it sounds like it’s the places the Patriots brought the arms they relocated before the armory got raided, if I had to guess. 

This is.

This is _information._ This is _huge_ information. If the British could find these bases– which wouldn’t be too hard because the areas provided on this paper aren’t too vague, even if they’re not specific.

But then I see the shadow of more words on the other side of the thin paper.

It’s Basilton’s handwriting, I think, though I can’t be sure at first glance.

 _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy, found among the possessions of Simon of the Salisbury household_ , _September 20th, 1775_.

“ _What?”_ I whisper to myself before I can stop myself. That’s ridiculous. _This_ is the note Simon lost, way back when?

I knew from Simon’s face it was a big deal, but I didn’t know it was _this_ big of a deal. But…

Why does Basilton _still_ have it?

And… _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy?_ I almost want to laugh, it’s such a ridiculously long name, and there’s nothing funnier than being named _Tyrannus._ Goodness. 

But that’s his real, full name, not the one that was on the quartering document he brought with him when he first arrived, and not the one we’ve been calling him by all this time. If only I knew what it meant, I could find out something that might lead me to Shepard. 

Which is a longshot even in my head. 

But I promised Simon I’d do everything I could, no matter how small the chances, so I think on it: the only rich, affluent, Loyalist family I can think of with the last name _Percy_ is General Hugh Percy’s family. 

Alright, well, they’re not Loyalists, since they came from Britain specifically for the war, but it’s all the same to me. He’s got a huge estate here, and word is he’s quite the power on the British side of the war. He was the one who saved the Redcoats who were all but doomed as they retreated from their errand to seize the weapons in Concord. 

I find it’s rather farfetched to consider Basilton is from _that_ family, but it sticks in my mind all the same as we go through the motions every day. I feel as if I’ve taken Simon’s place, studying Basilton as if he’s a book of mine. 

Simon always said he acted like he came from somewhere _filthy_ rich. I just thought he was posh and picky.

But he is rather cultured, a bit. He reads so many political things, at such speeds (though he always returns to that one page in _Common Sense._ I suppose it’s a very impactful page to him? After all, it’s about wealth, and he seems as though he comes from quite a bit of that). And he eats carefully, properly, never swears, and does things like forget about dirt or leave objects lying about that make me think perhaps he’s been waited on for most of his life.

It’s been what feels like forever when I go outside to do the laundry– it takes a while because scrubbing the clothes against the washboard in the frigid morning air causes me to take so many breaks just to warm myself up a bit in between items, and boil more water to add to the washbin– when Basilton finally pulls on that red coat and saunters out the door.

I don’t think he believes he’s fooling anyone, but he damn sure thinks no one will follow him. 

_Wrong._

Sure, there’s probably nothing I could possibly get out of following him. But I’ll do it on the off chance that there is. With only three people in the house to provide for, there’s less cooking, less shopping, and less laundry. 

I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.

He looks as if he’s unused to going this way, though. If anything, he’s acting as if he’s never gone wherever he’s going now: casting his eyes about curiously, turning his head so much I have to be careful to stay a good distance away from him and, of course, tuck my hair up tight underneath my bonnet so the red hair doesn’t catch his eyes. 

He hesitates on the turns and sets his shoulders before choosing a direction, sometimes choosing so suddenly, as if determined to go before he changes his mind, that a coachman will pull his horses back quickly and curse at him. This happens twice.

Both times, Basilton’s body pulls back, as if he’s unused to being cursed at, or walking busy streets, or both.

I suppose he does stay around home a lot, and seems rather averse to the busier parts of the city, from what I’ve seen. Still, it’s strange the way he goes about.

I’ve already decided wherever he’s headed to isn’t where he usually goes off to when he pulls out something white from his pocket– it looks to be an envelope but I can’t be sure from the distance I stand away from him– and seems to check an address, confirming my suspicions. 

Then, he turns a sharp left at the next corner and heads off, away from the louder parts of the city, from the markets and shops and into areas with more houses than establishments. 

The roads here are less packed and traveled, the houses are larger, and they have more space each: yards front and back, several stories, bigger shining glass windows, stables for a horse or two. 

He stops in front of a wide grass lawn, glistening wet with the melted morning snow. It could be a small field, but no one seems to be growing anything on it, though the grass is cropped quite short. 

In the middle of this huge yard sits a towering house, dark wood and tall, narrow windows, reaching into the sky with points, like the illustration of some sinister castle in a fairytale book. 

Basilton slips in through the door.

I watch him go. I can hardly _follow_.

It takes me a moment to realize it’s the house Simon and I ran to a week and a half ago (two days before ten days ago; I cope by counting them again and again, thinking of everything I’ve done on each day to make sure I haven’t miscounted). 

Sure enough, there are still goats grazing about over the grass, occasionally bleating as I slip myself in the shadow of a tree just outside the field’s fence, gazing out at the house and the field around it. 

I can see the little hill Simon and I settled ourselves on to talk. We needed to get away from things and just talk without worrying about being overheard more than we had anything to say, I think. 

I miss talking with Simon. He never read books like Micah and Shepard, but he cared more about whatever he was talking about than Micah ever did, and he cared more about _me_ than anyone ever has. 

I expected to miss Davy, but I don’t, not much. 

I expected to miss Simon, but I miss him far more than I expected to.

It looks different now, because the windows aren’t quite so dark, and while during the night it looked almost abandoned, it now looks positively _bustling_. It still looks not well cared for– rather dilapidated, really, but I can see figures moving about, and about, and about. 

I remember jokingly suggesting I find out where Basilton went every time he went out and breaking in. I almost consider it, too. I’d like to break a window. But it’s a stupid idea, and even stupider with all of these people in that house. 

So I sit and watch, whittling away time, until Basilton comes out, looking flushed and smiling to himself a little fondly, a little exasperatedly, and heads back in the direction of home.

I slip out from behind my tree and follow him back. 

I wonder who was in that house.

When I get home, I cross out the last day of February and curl up in the dark, quiet house, cold in spite of the many covers over my bed. Late February or early March, Simon had said. Tomorrow, it’ll be the first day of March. 

Nothing happens on the first day of March. I don’t know why I thought it would, only that it’s officially early March now, the second half of the window of time Simon gave me. For a moment I imagine Simon leaving out the door just like he did, Basilton kissing his hand, Simon closing the door, and me standing there with my gingerbread. I imagine that’s the last we hear of him– whatever mission he was set to carry out– outer Boston areas, he’d said– not hide or tail of it is ever heard of again.

I cook too much, and there’s leftovers. Simon always ate the leftovers.

The second day of March is when we hear the cannons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!! Your comments have melted me and cheered me on so much, I can't thank you enough! <3


	13. We're finally on the field, we've had quite a run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon finally gets to fight for the revolution, and it's the longest he's ever been from home, but he loves it.

**SIMON**

There are _so many_ people. 

People in different clothes, different men with shiny buttons yelling orders. We don’t really have official uniforms– not all of us, and not all the same uniform. We’ve all showed up in whatever we’ve got.

I catch General John Thomas’s bright coat, far enough away that I can barely make out his features. 

Dozens of men, a hundred at least, are lined up. Others are running about. The ear shattering explosion of a cannon’s fire sounds every now and again, and then shouts follow.

We’re dirty from racing about in the thick mud, shoving the cannons around, scrambling to set them again and again. 

We’re a total mess, and we’re firing canon after canon on the outskirts of Boston. There’s something rising in my chest, warm and strong. 

_We’re actually doing it_. 

I’ve never felt more like I was changing something, _really_ changing something, than I do right now. I’ve never felt more like other people even wanted things to change, _really_ wanted things to change, until right now. Looking out at this scattering of grim volunteers, barely trained, underequipped, determined to the last, all of us looking out over Boston, I feel like whooping. 

You don’t need to know a whole lot of stuff or be quick witted and special to change the world, I think, looking at these men, tripping over each other and firing again and again. You just have to _want to_. 

I want to. 

“Ay, boy!” One of the gunners hollers at me over the roar of the bombardment, and I pull my stare away from the spray of dirt where a canon falls, breaking through a wooden fence like a knife through butter on a summer’s day. “You need someone else to handle this piece?”

I jump, grab the sponge with both hands, and shove it into the cannon hurriedly. It’s heavy, but strong. It’s easy to direct if I hold it with both hands, and I’m glad I exercised my right arm after Baz broke it, or I wouldn’t be strong enough to have a good grip of it. But I am, and I do, and I clean the cannon out quickly, the biting cold metal steady in my hands.

“Give him a break,” another shouts back, and turns to me, still yelling. “First time?”

“Yeah!” I grin back, stepping away quickly, smoothly like we’ve practiced on the fields (though that was with Shepard, and I don’t know any of the men here). 

Another man rushes to fill the space I’ve made, already ready to shove in more powder. He moves back, dropping the powder ladle, and the next man is there, putting in hay and the cannonball, and then I ram them all in, hard. 

We move like clockwork, our group. 

“Y’good,” the second man says as he squints into the sun, aiming. “Must be a good trainee.”

“General Thomas,” I explain. 

“Ah.” He fiddles. Lights.

I cover my ears.

_Fire._

It’s loud. 

As we speak, General Washington, leader of the Continental Army, is just on the edge of Boston– _our Boston_ – fortifying Dorchester Heights. Fortifying that place will get us where we need to be. It gives us a high ground that the British can’t counter. Since their position will be indefensible, Washington reckons it’s all that we’ll need to get these Redcoats out of our city. 

To do so, they’ll need to fortify without being noticed, and that’s where we come in. We’ll be as fucking loud as we can. These cannons might as well be making me go deaf, but everyone else can hear them too. 

Baz would say I’m completely cut out for this job: no finesse, no need for care. Just be as violently disruptive as possible.

I’m inclined to agree. 

We’re louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. We’re doing great.

I’ve tried not to think about Baz too much. I’m not sure what he was up to, kissing my hand like that. Telling me he didn’t want me to die. 

I’m not sure what to think, either, of the way my hand tingled when he held it, the thrill that rushed through me at the touch of his lips. 

I’d think he’s trying to earn my trust, but it seems rather out of nowhere. And what information would I give him, even if he did earn my trust? I wouldn’t tell him a bloody thing. He’s a British informant.

I suppose then I wouldn’t trust him. 

Which means, I suppose, that I just can’t imagine trusting him.

He ought to know that. 

I think of him again: his grey eyes staring into mine, the lighter flecks, the darker flecks, the pitch black of his pupils– and nearly fumble the cannon.

“Watch it, kid,” yells the first one, and I almost fumble the cannon again. 

Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to trip me up, the bastard. Maybe that’s what this is: a plot to distract me so much during battle, I get myself killed because I can’t focus.

God. What happened to not thinking of all the things I want and can’t have? Not that I want him. Regardless, I push him from my mind as best I can, though… it doesn’t work too well.

Well, joke’s on him, because this is a one-way fight, at least so far. There aren’t British forces lined up against us, not yet. I know they wanted to fire on our fortifications from their ships in the harbor, but the weather hasn’t been kind on them, and thank God for it, because now it would take a truly terrible stroke of luck for my life to end in this fight. The only way I’d die here from distraction is if I mis-prepped the cannon.

Cowed by that thought, I clean it a little longer than I need to. Someone tuts behind me.

“Simon!”

I pull out the sponge and turn. “General Thomas, sir!”

“I trained you to be faster than that!” he chides, loudly, but he’s grinning.

I dive in to ram the ball and wad as quickly as I can, and then I pull myself out of the way so the other men can file into place, wiping cool sweat off of my forehead. The air is crisp and cool enough that I don’t feel hot until I stop moving, and the breeze dies down.

“There’s the man I know,” Thomas crows. 

The other men are giving me side eyes. Not everyone here is from the same regiment: some came from the gaggle of men that travel with Washington: his Continental Army. They’re the best of us, I think, or else they’re the ones without somewhere to go home to. Either way, they’re the best fighters, I think. 

Others are from other city’s regiments, other counties. Anyone who could make it, really, because when George Washington has a project, we prick up our ears and we _get to it_. 

(Most of us, anyway. He’s got his detractors. I think we’re getting nowhere if we can’t listen to the man leading our side unless he’s _perfect_. We’re never going to get there, and then things will never change.)

Thomas claps me on the shoulder. “Shame about Shepard,” he says to me, and somehow I can hear him over the cannons, even though he speaks quietly. He looks down, and I look down, too, unsure of what to say.

“Yeah,” I say finally, “It’s a shame.” I can’t help but think about Mr. Salisbury. Is it sort of my fault? I feel as though it is, by association.

Thomas waits for me to clean the cannon again, and then pound the wad and ball inside. “True about David, then?” He looks as if he’s trying not to smile. “Stop acting like you’ve done something wrong.”

“I–” I stumble over my words. I know it doesn’t really make sense to blame myself, but it’s there anyway. “He’s in jail, now. Shepard. We’re not sure where.”

Thomas sighs. “It happens,” he says eventually, but not in a resigned or trivial way. He sounds like someone who’s seen this happen before, to people he’s known. “I’ll tell you this, though: If you’ve got the right identification, you can break anyone out, no questions. They’ve got too many prisoners and not enough people doing the work around the prisons. They can’t keep track of them all.”

The rest of the men are waiting for me, but I can’t be damned to clean the cannon. I hand off the sponge to the right gunner. 

“Yeah?” My heart pounds in my ears, louder than the cannons. “How d’you know?”

Thomas grins, then, the kind of grin he gives me when we’re out training and I nail the target. It’s hard to, with the kind of accuracy our muskets have, even though many of them are better than the ones the British have got.

“How d’you think?”

We fire for a very long time, and then stumble away, our ears ringing, even though we all make an effort to cover them whenever we set off the canon. Other men slip in to take a shift at the canon as we sleep. 

It’s hard to, not only because the ground is cold and hard, and because cannon fire continues into the night. I’m so exhausted, I think I might have been able to fall asleep quickly even in spite of all of these things, if not for what General Thomas said to me today out there.

Shepard… it’s not as if we know where he is, or have the right papers. But I had been thinking about it anyway: if we did get his location, I’d wondered how in the world we’d get him out. Now it seems just a little bit easier. A little bit less of a stretch.

I wonder if Baz’s status is high enough to get us into one of those prisons– he’s definitely rich and from a high-up family. I wonder if there’s any way I could make him do it–

And I almost laugh out loud. _Please_. 

As if I’d ever find something I could blackmail him with– as if I’d ever blackmail him well enough that he couldn’t weasel his way out of it, the clever bastard.

And even if I did, what then?

He’d rather die than help me. 

When the men on the lines tire out, they stumble over, nearly trampling us as they fumble, waking us up roughly. 

We switch, our group returning to the cannons, and for a moment, I’m afraid I’ll muck it all up and make the cannon blow because I can’t see a thing. The moonlight is weak tonight, and I can barely see the outlines of the buildings in Boston, the trees making a shadowy silhouette against the dark sky. 

But I can see the gleam of the metal cannon and the flashing white sleeves sticking out of the other men’s thick coats. I can still see the dark shape of the sponge’s rod, however dimly. And most importantly, I’ve done this a thousand times. I used to joke with Shepard that I would be able to prime a cannon in my sleep.

Well, now I’m half asleep, and in the black night, barely able to see a thing.

And I’m doing just fine.

The city is quieter in the nighttime: less coaches clattering over the stones, few horses thundering about. To compensate, we hurry to fire as much as we possibly can. Some people say a good crew and a good canon can fire ten dozen times in a single twenty-four hour time period. 

I say that’s bullshit. 

But right now, we almost feel as if we’re on the edge of it, cleaning, pouring in the powder, reloading, ramming, set, aim, light, fire, repeat, in a smooth cycle. We don’t even know each other, the five of us, and we’re supposed to have six people on a cannon. 

But the Revolution is short on men, to put it lightly. And in the end it doesn’t matter who it is, we’re all different copies of the same different parts in our little machine. 

The cannon is so hot, I fear we’ve overworked it, even though the air is freezing, when the sun begins to dawn. It looks like gold spilling over the edge of the world. 

The ground has frozen over again, a thin sheen of white over the dirt, the mud hard beneath our boots, and it catches the sunlight sharply, almost as painful as looking at a snow-covered world in the mornings, when it bounces at just the right angle.

When the sun gets higher, the ground begins to soften– it must have snowed very little last night, but still enough to make the dirt thick and muddy again, caking over my boots. 

By the time mud has gotten soft enough to slow us down considerably, General Thomas is calling for us to stop.

He walks up the line of men, our staggered rows, his hands in his coat pockets. He’s in no hurry, which means nothing is wrong, but as he goes down the line, men stop firing the cannons, and ones father down the line– me and my group included– stop as well.

“Come around, come around,” he says, though he doesn’t really need to.

The men leave the cannons, following him, until we’re gathered up around him, scuffling playfully and stretching sore limbs. 

“Are we done?” hollers one. Not out of impatience, but out of eagerness. I can hear the rest of the men murmuring, too. 

“Has Washington finished?” calls another.

General Thomas looks at them quellingly, but he’s smiling too much– he’s always trying to be more stern than he can muster. “No one’s firing the cannons; we’re not making any noise. Do you think I’d call you off if we weren’t done?”

“Aw, just answer the question!” someone yells, but it’s playful. Already, there are whoops, and people clapping each other on the back, cheering. 

I wish Shepard were here. He’d be the man yelling for Thomas to just answer the question. He always is.

General Thomas grins. “Washington and his men finished. Their cannons are fortifying Dorchester, and the British position has been rendered indefensible.” 

I whoop with the rest of the men this time. There are cheers and more cheers. We could’ve just screamed our distraction instead of firing on the city. 

“Pack it up, fellas!” Thomas waves his hand. “Unless you’re with Washington’s travelling troupe, it’s time to go home!”

 _Home_ , I think.

I’ve missed Penny, and our house, with our stale gingerbread. I’ve missed my cot, having been here for over a week, lying on the hard ground and waiting for General Thomas to give us the order.

I haven’t missed Baz. 

I _haven’t_. 

There’s no one to irritate and poke at, and no one to glare at, no one to show up and impress– but neither is there someone irritating me and poking at me and glaring at me and showing me up and impressing me.

So I haven’t missed him, not one bit. 

Even if I’ve read up to Baz’s little scrap of paper, from where we were to where he is, and in my head it’s his voice. Even if, three days ago, I reached his scrap of paper, and for some reason, I didn’t read past it.

It isn’t as if we’re going to finish reading this together. It isn’t as if we’re going to be reading together at all– he’s _leaving_ , for Christ’s sake– _for good_ , if Washington’s set up works, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t.

And it _definitely_ isn’t as if I’d want him to.

Still, I didn’t read past it. 

It wouldn’t have felt right, somehow.

We have a good supper, but we don’t have enough of it. I miss Penny’s cooking again, and the way she would let me help her in the kitchen, even though I was hopeless at it.

After we finish dragging these cannons off and we’re able to go home, the first thing I’ll ask her is if we can make bread: she’ll mix and measure and I’ll knead. And Baz will probably stare– he always does. I think it’s the flour that gets all over me. I must look a right idiot covered in flour, especially because I rarely bother with an apron, but I can’t bring myself to care, normally, because I love kneading the dough. 

I don’t care.

And anyway, Baz will be gone soon, I think. I’m not sure what the exact terms are, but the British can’t do anything with Dorchester fortified like that, and the goal is, of course, to end the British occupation.

Baz is occupying our space. Quartered in our home. And getting in our way. 

And then he’ll be gone. _And then he’ll be gone_.

I think it. I think it again. But I can’t imagine it, somehow, or I don’t like thinking about it. (It’s because I don’t like thinking about _him_ , and who can blame me?) So I stop thinking it.

I settle in to sleep on the ground again, still full of energy from a much less exhausting day. 

Tomorrow we’ll begin dragging the canons: if we start early in the morning and go as quickly as we can, we’ll be able to do it all in one day. General Thomas took a vote and the men decided they liked that better than sleeping somewhere off on the roadside halfway through the journey to Roxbury’s safehouse.

We’ve done our part; now we’ll see if Washington’s forces can achieve what they’ve set out to do, and drive the British out of town. This team has done what they can, and if Washington could fortify Dorchester in a day and a half, even with frozen ground, terrible for trenches, I’m almost certain they will succeed.

Since my mind won’t settle down and I’m not quite tired yet, I think about Penny, and her laughter, and the way she cares for me like I’m her kid getting into street fights instead of her best friend who is the same age as her, but still talks to me with patience and honesty. 

I think of Ms. Salisbury, who never talks to me that much, but who’ll have my head for leaving when I get back. 

I think of Miss Ebeneza and her wonderful goat cheese. I miss her goat cheese.

I try not to think of Shepard, because I don’t want to stop trying, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that there’s nothing to be done about it. 

Unless we get hands on Baz’s papers or something. 

And then I go back to thinking about Baz, and I _don’t like_ thinking about Baz.

I fall asleep, and when I wake, I get the distinct feeling that I dreamed of him. For Christ’s sake. I don’t even try to grasp at the leftovers of whatever the dream was– I just jump right into pulling the cannons and forget about it.

“That’s it–” 

We’re on a barely beaten path, still unpacked and riddled with stones, hauling the cannons down it with difficulty. The wheels keep jamming up against rocks, and bouncing up when I give it a fierce tug, clattering over the stones with wild irregularity. 

Night has fallen, and the shadow makes it hard to tell where the path is, or spot rocks in our way, so we compensate by pulling harder, rolling right over them. We’re trying to turn a corner, but it’s hard to see.

I pull right as hard as I can, and the guy in the back pushes the back end of the cannon left as hard as he can. The wheels creak in protest, screeching. I wipe my forehead. Even the cold winter night can make me sweat if I’m pulling cannons.

“Just around this bend, just around this bend.” 

There’s the safehouse just ahead, they tell me (I’ve never seen it). That’s where they store plenty of weapons and artillery, I know, because– I recall with a wince– it was one of the locations on the letter that I lost.

I half expect it to be gone, blown to smithereens or raided, when we turn the corner, panting from the turn– but it looks fully in tact: it’s long, wooden, and solid, a few men milling around it, a couple standing surreptitiously at the doors. When they see the cannons– though I doubt they can make out more than the shapes of our figures in this light– they relax and begin to call for some “John.”

The man who must be John– fat and jolly, yelling, “Coming, coming!”– hurries over with the loud, metallic jangle of a ring of keys and opens up the lock on the high wooden door. It swings open, and I can see the gleam of metal and polished wood: muskets, cannons, bayonets in the moonlight.

I’d like a bayonet. As intimidating as it seems, I’ve always wanted to fight with a blade. It seems more like real fighting to me than anything else could.

“Forward,” the man beside me huffs– he’d been the right gunner, the one who’d told me I was good at the canon. 

It’s downhill from here, and we strain against the weight of it, trying to slow it’s decent to a reasonable pace. It’s easier because the wheels are so resistant to turning. 

“ _Whoa_ ,” calls the other– his friend, the one who’d told me to watch it– as we speed up. He says it as if calling a horse to halt, laughing. “Slow down, slow it down!” 

We do, slowing for the turn into the door, and push it into the safe house.

It isn’t really a safehouse. It’s huge, and it’s got no rooms, as if it might’ve been a large barn before, but now it’s filled with weapons of war.

 _Filled._ A lantern hangs from the high wooden ceiling. Muskets and bayonets hang from the walls and pile up against each other, leaning like sticks in the corners. There are rows and rows of cannons, cartridges of cannon balls and bullets, and so many powder kegs I’m halfway inclined to disbelieve the rumors that the Continental Army is grossly under equipped where gunpowder (and everything else) is concerned. 

I know it’s not nearly enough for a war– _especially_ not a war against Britain– but it’s the most I’ve seen stocked up anywhere.

When I look around, I’m so glad no one ever found the letter I lost that my knees go weak.

We sleep there, inside so we don’t get snowed on, under the roof, surrounded by cannons that look tall and intimidating when I lie down and can only see their shadows rising above me. This room is made to hold animals, but instead it holds enough to kill a hundred people, a thousand. 

It’s strangely reassuring. I’m in the belly of a beast, but it’s our beast. Our beast may be smaller, younger, and still learning how to fight, but we have a beast.

It must be past midnight. I fall asleep quickly. 

It feels like I’ve barely slept– thought through my eyelids I can tell it’s light out– when someone wakes me, shaking my shoulder. They do it gently, this time, without the urgency of when we were woken to take over the cannons.

“You,” a gruff voice says. “You, is this your book?” There’s the thumping sound of a hand hitting the cover of a book.

It’s cold, and I’m curled up in a ball the way I usually sleep, the thin blanket we all got for the night not nearly enough against early March’s chilly weather. The dirt here, under a roof, is dry and hard. I push myself up as I open my eyes.

The man talking looks a little sleepy: bags under his eyes, a stubbled chin, squinting into the light that streams through the barred window behind me. It’s the right gunner, and he’s holding my book curiously, flipping through the pages. His large brown hands dwarf the book, making it look smaller than it is. 

“Not really,” I say, and then realize he’s asking whether it’s mine, as opposed to someone else here– most of them are awake, and those that aren’t are stirring. “Yeah, it’s mine.”

The gunner’s got another piece of paper in his hands: a newspaper, by the looks of it. It reminds me of Shepard and his phony papers. 

He holds it out to me carefully, sheepishly, almost. “Can you read this out for me?”

I take it from him. At least I’m white, and got elementary schooling. I feel lucky, now, to know the little that I do. “I don’t read much,” I tell him, smiling. It’s strange to think that I’m the one someone else might come to to read something to them. “I’m still learning.”

“Me too,” he says, his face lighting up. “Maybe I’ll be able to read a book like that someday, ay?” 

We look at each other. “Yeah,” I say, “Yeah, I bet you will.” I smooth out the paper and move to his side. “Which part?” And then I see it. “Ah. Nevermind then.”

“I know ‘ _Washington’_ ,” the man laughs, “That I know.”

The date of the paper is from two days ago.

 _GEORGE WASHINGTON AIMS DORCHESTER CANNONS ON BOSTON_.

Under the headline, _On March 5, just yesterday, “General Washington,” as proponents of what people are beginning to refer to as a “revolution” managed to corner the British quite impressively from a position that British cannons could not reach, though they tried._

I think they’ll make it. I think they’ll succeed.

“I’ll read,” I say, “and you can follow along.”

We stay one more night, because it turns out we woke up nearly at midday, and after we’ve eaten dinner and helped get all the weapons and artillery in order, it’s nearly suppertime, and light is fading. 

By the lantern-light, other men pass around the paper I read this morning, crowing over it. Some are better readers than me; others cannot read at all. One of the men– the left gunner, the one who told me to _watch it_ – is quite a good reader.

The man I read to this morning turns away as he begins to read, bunching up his pack so it forms a pillow-like lump under his head. He’s frowning. 

“Do you know him?” I can’t help asking. Judging from the look on his face, it doesn’t look as if they’re very friendly. “The left gunner?”

He glances up at me, his eyes black in the shadow because his back is to the lantern. “His name is Peter Smith,” he mutters. “He’s a slaver.”

Oh. I don’t know what I can say to that. I have immense respect for someone who can fight beside someone that terrible– I’m not sure if I could, not even for this revolution. I suppose I _am_ fighting beside them, but I’m not African American, and I’m not face-to-face with it, the way this man obviously is. “Well fuck him,” I say, “But more importantly, you’re… that’s…”

The right gunner smiles. “Thanks. I’d rather you read things than him.”

I don’t try to pretend this doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m not sure why it means so much, but it does. “What’s your name?”

“Ben. Benjamin. What’s yours?”

“Simon.” I look at him, and think I will never see him again after this night. “Simon Snow Salisbury, I guess.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean by _I guess_. He just sits halfway up and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.”

I go to sleep, thinking about Ms. Salisbury. I dream about her kissing my forehead and calling me her rosebud boy.

There’s _more_ news the next day. We don’t get it until the late morning, after we’ve all packed up our bedrolls, eaten a quick, thin breakfast that leaves my stomach growling, and gathered our things. 

We’re saying goodbye and parting ways when a skinny little newsboy comes hurtling down the path we pulled the cannons down two nights ago, his sack nearly empty, paper in his hands. 

“Don’t have many copies,” he gasps, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “Not a newspaper.”

We’re all looking at him. Everyone is still.

Did the British somehow manage to take Washinton’s defenses? A storm came through and prevented them from launching anything really damaging– at least, I was sure of it until now. 

My heart races in my throat, but I don’t move. I can’t.

And then the newsboy straightens up, and he’s beaming.

“I just got word that Washington got a letter,” he says. “The British. They’re leaving.”

Everyone moves, all of a sudden, a flurry of limbs and packs being left. I let out a whoop. Other people are whooping too, shouting and shoving each others’ shoulders. Others stand and grin looking around at everyone, their expressions stunned. There are cheers and someone grabs the newsboy, snatching the paper in his hand and reading it. 

“It’s true!” they shout, even though no one doubted it was, “It’s _true!”_

Someone else, a young soldier, grabs the newsboy and whirls him around, and the newsboy laughs and smacks him with his newsbag. They look happy. They look happy together. They look, I think, something fluttering in my chest, _together_. 

Everyone is happy. _I’m_ happy. 

I’m so happy I can’t breathe. There’s something in my chest– feeling part of something, something successful, feeling useful and valued and capable. Feeling the potential of the revolution at my fingertips, in my heartbeat, on the tip of my tongue.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder how soon Baz is going home.

It doesn’t stay in the back of my head for long.

Plenty of men take the road I’m taking, back to Boston, because many of the men are part of General Thomas’s regiment, and there’s a lot of loud chatter, which I join eagerly. 

I talk with General Thomas and several other men that can almost always be found with General Thomas (although if I really think about it, I suppose I am one of those men too). They’re great to talk to, because they’re eager and loud, and ready to fight like I am. I imagine this is how Penny feels when she talks to Micah– or nowadays, Shepard– about her books.

Still, I wish I could be talking to Benjamin, or Shepard, who would always talk with me as we practiced, even after several officers barked at us to focus. 

I sort of miss arguing with Baz, I think, and then I take it back. I don’t, not really. I’ve just gotten used to it. 

I sleep in a tavern halfway between the Roxbury safe house and the Salisbury’s place, unpacking the few things I have out. The book– his book goes on the bedside stand and as I lie on my side, curled up, I wonder if he meant it when he said _Common Sense_ was _quite good_. 

I tell myself I don’t care, but when I round the corner and spot the Salisbury’s house just as it always was– it’s only been a couple weeks, really– and knock, I’m strangely relieved that Baz is the one who opens the door. 

I’m glad he’s still here. I think I at least want to say goodbye before he goes.

The first thing my eyes catch on are his gray eyes. They run over me, up and down, sharp as a knife and oddly bright. His face is pale, and he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping very well. My eyes catch on his parted lips before I look away. 

He evidently isn’t doing terribly, though, because he still looks fucking fantastic: he’s wearing thick winter clothes, but finely woven, and made of expensive cloth, and they’re pressed and crisp.

“Would you like to come in, Snow?” he asks, making no move to get out of my way so I can step through the doorway.

“Still a prat, then,” I mutter. I don’t know why it’s a relief, except that now I know he hasn’t changed. It’s only been two weeks, but it’s the longest time I haven’t had to deal with him for almost a year. That’s why I feel so queer inside. 

I wave my hand at him. Surprisingly, he moves out of the way. 

“Penelope is almost finished cooking supper,” he says, “you look like you could use some food.”

He turns and leaves before he can even see me gaping at him. 

“I could use some…” Is he being nice to me? Then the words catch up to me: _I could use some food_. “I _could_ use some food.”

There’s a loud wooden clatter in the kitchen. “Simon?” comes a voice, briskly, but there’s a tremble to it. “Simon, is that you?”

I rush over to the kitchen. “Penny! _Penny!_ ”

She comes out just as I’m coming in, and we practically collide in the doorway, all messy limbs. She smells like thyme and bread dough, and she has flour in her hair. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she mutters, and slaps me on the chest. “You should have written or something.”She means _I missed you._

“We were moving around so much,” I say. “And no one got hurt. What are you cooking?” I mean _I missed you too_. 

“Well, some people got hurt.” She steps back from me and smooths out her apron. She tries to order: “I’m making bread, and you’ve got to knead it now, before it has time to rest. I’ve been having to knead it, and I hate it,” but she’s beaming so widely the effect is lost.

“People got hurt? Not from my group. Not from Washington’s either, I thought.” I do remember the British firing back, but they were so far out of range. No one was close enough to even have a chance at getting hit.

I look around– it’s as if I’ve come back from vacation, but a vacation all by myself. I think of Benjamin. Well, not _all_ by myself. “Where’s Ms. Salisbury?”

“Are you sure you want to find her?” Penny jokes, but she tells me, “Technically she’s out at the market, but this late, I’m sure she’s talking to Miss Ebeneza. She’ll be back for supper. It’s almost ready.”

There’s a sound in the living room, and then Baz comes in. He never comes in to the kitchen, but Penny doesn’t blink an eye. I guess things did change around here while I was gone. I guess it’s just me he hates, then. 

“Ebeneza,” Baz echoes. “Lucy is friends with Miss Ebeneza?”

I blink at him. “Yes… Have you even met Miss Ebeneza?” He speaks almost as if he’s familiar with her, but that can’t be right, because he barely ever goes to market. 

“I… I got goat cheese for you that once.” Baz leans up against the doorway, watching me knead the dough. His loose hair falls into his face, and his mouth quirks up on one side. 

I hate it when he watches me. He’s so still and steady and graceful. Even though I know he doesn’t know how to fight, it still feels like he’s a predator waiting to pounce.

“People got hurt?” I repeat, because Penny hasn’t elaborated. I try to ignore Baz, but his gaze burns into me as if he’s willing me to turn around and look at him. 

“Four men on Nook’s hill,” Penny says. “They must’ve been going to Washington from your… from whoever you were with. It happened just this morning, and we found out this afternoon. I knew you weren’t one of them, but…”

“Do they know who?” I know Benjamin was headed that way.

Baz leaves the doorway just as I finish kneading the dough. Suddenly, I want to punch things again, so I keep kneading it anyway. I hope it wasn’t Benjamin. I punch the dough harder.

“Leave it to rest, Simon.” Penny tuts and shoos my hand away. “If you want, you can chop wood outside.”

I stop. “I didn’t chop extra to leave you with when I left,” I realize. “Did you have to buy it cut?”

Penny raises her eyebrows, smiling the sort of smile she gives when she knows she’s going to surprise me. “No. You’ll never guess who cut it.”

I wait. She smiles.

“...You?” I guess. 

Baz comes back into the kitchen, a paper in his hand. “I did,” he says.

I look over at him. “ _You_ did?”

He scowls. “Don’t look so surprised. I can be useful when I want to be. Did you want to hear who got hurt or not?”

I keep looking at him. He’s got to be up to something. He isn’t smiling and clasping my hand, welcoming me home or whatever, but he’s definitely a little nicer or something. It’s as if he’s drunk or something. A happy drunk who retains their wits. I don’t know. This isn’t normal.

Seeing that I’m not going to respond– I’m half sure if I answered _yes_ he’d follow up with _too bad, then_ – he looks down at the paper and reads out names.

“Abraham Gaslow, Thomas McMullen, Peter Smith, Christopher Wallace.” 

“Oh.” I’m relieved that Benjamin isn’t on there, and then the names catch up to me. I can’t help grinning, and I feel faintly as if I should feel bad for it… but I don’t, not really. “Peter Smith, you said?”

Baz looks up, something in his eyes. He almost looks concerned. Possibly probing for information, though he already knows I’m actively part of the revolutionary military efforts, so I’m not sure what more he could possibly want. “Did you… know him?” he asks, almost cautiously.

I snort. “Not really.”

Penny frowns, casting me a severe look. “Well then I don’t think you’ve got any place to be happy that he’s dead.”

“Oh come on.” I push the dough towards her. I don’t feel like I need to punch anything anymore, which is good, because I think I’ve already overworked the dough quite a bit. “He’s a slaver Penny. Or was. Was a slaver.”

Penny looks at the dough doubtfully, but she takes it anyway with a sigh. “That doesn’t make it alright,” she says, but she bumps my shoulder and smiles. “But if four died, I’m glad he was one of them.” 

“Four died?” someone repeats from the doorway. It’s Ms. Salisbury. “Penelope, who– who died?”

Oh goodness. I cast a panicked look at Penny– when Ms. Salisbury sees I’m back she’ll scold me within an inch of my life. Penny just elbows me in the side, hard.

Baz snickers.

“Not me,” I call. I can hear her gasp, and then her footsteps hurrying over. “I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I really like this chapter. I hope you did too!!


	14. Why are you telling me this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz hasn't come up with a way to get the information about Shepard to Simon, and the British are beginning to go home... whatever will he do?

**BAZ**

I get the proclamation the day after Snow returns.

Snow’s return was… good. I’m glad he’s alive, and I’m glad he’s not only alive, but healthy, and happier than I think I’ve ever seen him. _Ever_. Whatever risks fighting has, it looks to me like it lights him up the way nothing else ever has.

And I wouldn’t trade seeing him like that for the world. 

But I know what else that means: I’m going to leave.

It would’ve been easier to leave before he even got back, but there was no official order out. Now there is, and I’m actually going to have to walk out this house with Snow still in it.

I don’t know why that’s such a big deal to me. It’s the same thing, really. 

Snow looks suspiciously at me a lot, which probably has something to do with the way I’ve started acting– less like a prick. Which actually feels really good, although it’s a bit dampened by the fact that just acting nicer makes Snow suspicious of me. I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s not as if I treated him well, exactly. 

“What’s that?” He looks ready to tear the paper out of my hands. 

I resist the urge to point out that if it was secretive or potentially dangerous to him, it would’ve been given to me in a much more covert way than through the post like any other letter.

I push it across the table to him.

He glances at it, then comes around to my side of the table, so we can both see it. “Read it,” he demands. 

I swallow. His chest is inches from my shoulder, and I can feel the heat of him. I can imagine leaning back a little into him, and his arms coming around me as I read. I can imagine us back in the room we share, his eyes resting fondly on me as I read him a fairytale where everything ends happily. 

Does it end happily? It sure had a turn-about, but I haven’t finished it. Actually, I haven’t even seen Snow unpack his bags yet. He just leaves it lying on the floor. He promises he’ll put it away, but I suppose his messy room will be none of my concern soon enough. 

I breathe around the ache in my chest and push it from my mind. And I read it to him.

“Ridiculous,” Snow says, but there’s something odd in his voice. “They want our linens?” 

“The first thing I thought when I read it was that it was rather ridiculous. Look at us, agreeing on things,” I tease. 

He just looks back at me oddly. “What was your second thought?”

Strangely– or not so strangely, really– it was that if I really did take all their linens, I’d have sheets that smelled like Snow. (I’m disturbed. Truly, truly distrubed.) “That they’re bringing me back to England,” I lie. “I’ve missed England.”

“Yeah,” Snow agrees, somewhat mindlessly. His voice is still strange. “I’m glad we’ll have you out of our hair.”

“Hey,” I say, still teasingly. I don’t say anything else. He’s looking at me, and his eyes stop all the words in my throat before I can speak them. For a moment, his eyes flicker over my face, then go right back to my eyes, and I remember how close we are. For a moment, I feel almost as if he’s seeing me.

And then he shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re up to,” he mutters. 

I’m acutely disappointed when he stops looking at me, and a little relieved, too. I feel like we’ve narrowly avoided something, and I’m not sure what it was. My heart is still in my chest, but it kicks back up when he doesn’t move any more than standing up straight again. 

“It says you’re to go by two days from now,” he observes, his eyes flickering over the paper.

“So it does.”

His lips press together, a thin line, but he doesn’t say anything. I wonder what he’s thinking– that he’s never going to have to see me again, probably, and how he can’t wait for two days from now. _Two more days,_ he’s thinking. 

I’m going to leave and never see him again, and he’s going to live the rest of his life not knowing that I’ve been in love with him this whole time. That I’ll probably stay in love with him for several years after I leave, if not the rest of my life. I feel as dramatic as Romeo, but I can’t imagine going back to not loving him.

“You’re not actually taking our linens are you?” He looks amused by the idea of my folding up all linen and woolen items and bringing them back. He’s looking forward to it, I think.

I agree; whatever the practicality of the order, it’s a bit funny to think they’re asking for this, of all things. “No, keep your linens.” I let myself enjoy the comical surprise on his face– he expected me to pounce on the opportunity to take from him, I reckon. “I can’t imagine hauling all of that, just so you won’t have any.” 

This time, my teasing finally gets a smile out of him. It’s soft and amused, almost wry, just the little tug up at the corners of his mouth. Almost exasperated. Almost… fond. 

It drops immediately– as if he’s too shocked by his own smile to keep smiling– but my heart leaps in my chest all the same, and when he walks off without a word, I’m thankful, because I don’t think I can speak. I _know_ I can’t speak.

There’s a soft thumping sound, clatters. It sounds as if he’s packing… or unpacking. He’s settling back in here just as I’m getting ready to leave. (I’ll never be ready.)

His face when Ms. Salisbury came back and hugged him, the way his face lit up when I told him Penelope was in the kitchen… this is his home. His family. 

And I’m going back to mine.

I’m about to pick up _Common Sense_ – though I’ve pretty much got the thing memorized by now, and certainly the pages I read to Snow– when Snow comes back out.

He’s got the leather-bound book in his hands, the red ribbon still there, with it’s frayed end sticking out near the end.

“I caught up to you.” He hands me the book and sits on the table by my chair. He’s so much higher than me, but not very far. His… his body is so close. Again. But this time it isn’t his chest. 

I can’t even look at him. 

“Oh?” I take the book, arching an eyebrow. 

At the book, because if I look at him, I know I’ll flush redder than the sunset. 

I hold the book back up in his direction. His knee will brush my shoulder if he turns just a little. “You should finish it.”

He taps it, but he doesn’t take it. “You should too, probably. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be a tragedy after all.”

“You think?” I sneer. “It’s just a story, Snow. It’s not that important to me. It’s unrealistic. People don’t get happy endings like that.”

“So– what, you’re just not going to read it because you don’t want them to have an unrealistic ending?” Snow sounds vaguely offended on behalf of the book. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

I know he’s just kidding from his tone, but I drop the book in his lap anyway, and get up. “Nothing.” It comes out sharper than I intend. “I just think it’s a children’s story, and the Princess is rather…”

“Rather what?” Snow looks surprised. “I thought you’d rather like the Princess– you always– I mean, you read her, y’know. Fondly. She’s a bit like you.”

“Oh, I know.” I sigh. “She’s positively _cruel_. And I guess you’re the hero, then?” I realize too late that I’m implying we’re lovers. I’m implying he’s in love with me.

He doesn’t seem to notice this– he’s considering it thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve never been in love with someone who’s set to marry someone else, or quested after someone like that,” he says, and frowns, “And no one’s ever fallen in love with me.”

 _Oh, fuck you,_ I think violently. _God, what the hell? How do you even exist?_

“But,” he’s saying, oblivious to how I’m on the edge of killing him, or kissing him, or one after the other. “I like how he’s– I dunno, he’s poor and doesn’t come from a rich family or anything like that, and he never lets it stop him.” He looks at me after he says this, and when I just look back he shakes his head, looking annoyed. “You don’t get it, I suppose.”

 _I think I do_. I’ve watched him and learned him inside and out without him even noticing. I know he’s _just_ like that. “I suppose not.”

“Baz,” he slips the book back onto the table, not where I am, but clearly for me. “I bet you could have a happy ending, too, if you wanted one.”

 _That’s where you’re wrong,_ I think, _You’re my happy ending._

And I can’t have that.

“Simon,” Penelope says, coming over to us, her hands clutching another piece of mail, “Simon.”

“What’s that?” Snow’s attention slips from me easily. He’s so interested in the mail and the newspaper now, eagerly devouring every bit of news of the slow de-occupation of Boston. I suppose it makes sense. He’s wanted and worked for and written about this for so long. And I’ll be gone, the very best part for him. 

She hands over whatever it is. “It’s… it’s because we don’t have a male to manage this property. No one legally holds the house…”

Snow frowns. “They can’t just wait until I turn eighteen?”

She shakes her head. “You know they won’t.”

Snow catches sight of me watching them, and I smirk at him automatically. He frowns at me, leans closer to her, and lowers his voice, conversing with Penelope in a low murmur that I can’t hear.

I go to pack up my things: I’m leaving in two days, after all. 

I leave the book on the table.

I feel Snow watching me when we go to bed, and I know he’s still trying to figure me out. I want to tell him there’s nothing about me to figure out. 

When we get up, I’m tired– I could hardly sleep with him staring at me like that. He’s frowning at me now.

“One more night, and you’ll have your bed back,” I tell him, “Cheer up.” 

“Right,” he says, not looking too cheered up. “One more day.”

The bread is not their best bread– I think Snow overworked it. Still, I enjoy it– their toast is something I never had in my mornings. It’s something I guess I’ll never have; anytime anything is homemade, it’s a little different than anything of the same thing someone else makes. It’s unique to them. I’ll _miss_ it.

Penelope gathers up all my clothes and washes them, and Snow putters about the room, probably imagining it without me in it.

I pack up my clothes into bags first, then my other belongings. The book has moved off the table, because Lucy didn’t want it on the table in case food got on it, but it’s unclear who will keep it. I don’t know if I want to read it. I want _Snow_ to read it, for sure. 

I don’t know if it even matters how it ends; it’s so unbelievable. It’s hard to be invested in something that unbelievable.

But I wonder about them all the same, even though I don’t let myself read it. Maybe I’m only thinking about it because I won’t let myself read it. I think about the book and Snow all day. 

I pack my coats. I bury the papers I stole from my father in my bags. I don’t have enough time to cook up a plan to get them to Snow and Penelope without them suspecting I’m trying to fool them. I don’t know how I’d orchestrate that, and if I didn’t come up with anything in two weeks, there’s no chance I’ll manage to do it overnight.

So I don’t give it to him.

And I spend my last night under the Salisbury’s roof staring up at the ceiling again, thinking about what decisions I’ve made. And the ones I haven’t. It’s suitable I suppose. That’s how most of my nights were spent anyway. 

The moon is full, and Snow is curled up tight, the curtains flutter– he’s under a thin blanket, and I’m fairly certain it’ll snow tonight, but he’s left the window open anyway.

Of course he has. 

My bags are packed at the foot of my bed. Everything is in order, and I’m leaving without even helping them. 

Of course I am.

Snow mutters something in his sleep. He’s so beautiful. It’s my last night in the same room as him, my last night where I’m able to stare at him like this.

His hair is golden under the white light of the mood, and his jaw casts sharp shadow over his neck, where he’s got a mole. I can see his lips moving, just a little, the shape of him under the blanket, the muscles of his arm where it’s bent over his chest, over the blanket, his fingers resting on the pillow by his head. 

He always sleeps curled. I wonder if he slept curled before I came and he had to sleep in that little cot. I wonder if he was a sweeter boy before the revolution– he’s sweet now, but he’s a bit angry. He’s certainly hankering for a fight. 

I wonder how often he thinks of Shepard. How much he cared about Shepard. How much Shepard, whoever this seventeen-year-old is, will haunt him.

I get up, quietly, and unclasp the ties around my bag.

It’s hard to see, and they’re at the bottom: I have to take all my clothes out. I could dump it, but then they would all get dirty and unfolded. I move them to my bed, and then, pull the paper from the bottom. 

Careful not to knock into anything, I push them under his bed, where his savings are. 

“Baz?”

... _Fuck._

I swallow, and then I sigh for good measure. “Hi, Simon. Carry on sleeping, will you?”

“Baz, what are you– are you stealing from me?” Snow sits up quickly, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the window as if to assure himself this is me, kneeling and rummaging under his bed, in the middle of the night, the moon still in the sky.

 _Of course_ this happened, here, now. He’s a light sleeper, and I don’t want to think about why. Still, I was very quiet about it. Of all the nights for him to have an especially hard time sleeping. 

I don’t know what to do. _I don’t know what to do_. There’s no way I’ll talk myself out of this one; Snow is too persistent. Whatever I say, he won’t let it go. 

And maybe I don’t want to talk myself out of this one. 

If I put the fact that giving him the information straight will only make him suspect I’m up to something, I don’t want to lie to him… I’ve lied too much. To him.

He’s already fumbling the bedside drawers open, the wood scraping softly, opening a box of matches. He strikes, lights it in one go, and gets two candles’ wicks going before he has to shake the match out.

“What’s that, then?” He gestures to the paper, his blue eyes mesmerizing in the low, flickering candlelight as he lowers it to my level, staring down at me. The lights and shadows draw the line of his jaw firmly, light the rough midnight’s stubble on his cheeks, down his neck. 

I can’t find my words for a moment. 

“Baz, give me that. Hand it over.” 

I start. “I wasn’t taking anything from you. I… was. It’s not yours; I was giving something to you.”

“Sure.”

“No– it is.” Why is it easier to be honest in the dark? I should have had conversations with Snow in the cover of darkness all year; and then we’d be love-making on his cot already. “It’s something… important to you. I want you to have– well, I got it for you.”

Snow stares. 

“I was only going to tuck it into the box under your bed.”

Snow blinks, and the silence seems to trickle away until suddenly, it’s not quiet at all anymore. I can hear his breathing, the rustle of his clothes as he moves off the cot, the crinkle of the papers when I tighten my hands around them involuntarily. The quiet only makes me feel as if our world has gotten smaller, down to the scale of these little sounds, and it’s just us in this little world, just the two of us– we can only fit if we’re close.

His chest brushing my back through thick nightclothes, the heat of him radiating off of his body and seeping into me. That heat has nothing on the warmth of his fingertips, though, as he wraps his hands around mine, leaving the candle on the floor carelessly, and pulls my hands off the folded papers. I can smell the scent of him: sun and smoke, young.

“What…” his breath is in my ear. 

Is this what leaving feels like? That every single movement of his suddenly matters a hundred times more? I didn’t think it was possible to treasure everything Snow-touched more than I already did, but here I am. I’m leaving. 

It feels like the time when he was leaving; when I left my sanity somewhere in the bedroom and when I left the bedroom to say goodbye, I thought it was a good idea to kiss his hand. 

He’s asked me about it. _What’s up with you?_ Never directly mentioning it, but. _But_. I catch him looking and I know he wonders. I’m glad he never asks for real. I wouldn’t have an answer for him. 

_I thought I’d never see you again. Whether you’d die or join the Revolutionaries for good, I was sure it would be one of those. And I love you._

He’s swallowing, right by my ear. He’s practically reading over my shoulder. His swallow is the showiest swallow I’ve ever seen, and I’m both disappointed and glad I’m not facing him and with better lighting. Is it a strange thing to want to see his idiotic swallow as many times as I can before I go?

“Don’t tell me you’re having trouble reading this, Snow. It’s better handwriting than David’s.” I’m surprised my voice is steady. It’s still a little, _little_ bit breathless.

He’s been silent for a long time. Simon Snow is so rarely silent. 

“I don’t understand,” he finally says. His voice is rough. It’s the middle of the night, after all.

“That’s to be expected,” I mutter without thinking. 

“No, shut up.” Snow doesn’t sound upset or impatient, merely preoccupied. His full attention must be on the paper, or else he’d have some malice to spare me. “This is about Shepard.” 

“No, it’s about the King,” I say, and Snow makes a quiet derisive sound. “Yes, it’s about Shepard. I thought you’d want it.”

Snow shakes his head above me, and then he’s recklessly pushing the candle aside and sitting beside me, good and proper. Still close enough for me to feel warm, but not so that his chest brushes my back every time he breathes. It feels like a loss. 

“I don’t understand.”

“I heard you the first time.” My heart is in my throat. What happens now? Will he take the papers? Are we going to sit here until morning? He’s already read them. He knows what I’ve got in my hands now.

“Well?” Snow huffs, and the flame jolts, but burns on determinedly. “Are you going to explain it?”

“What am I meant to explain, exactly?” I don’t even know where to start. I _know_ why he’s confused– really, what _isn’t_ there to be confused about from his end– but what am I to say?

_I love you. I love you and Shepard is your friend, and I could help you and I wanted to because somehow it’s so much easier knowing I’ll never see you again. No, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me that I can only be kind when I’m gone. Fuck off, Snow._

_I love you_.

That’s all it boils down to. 

And if there’s _one thing_ in the world I will not say, it’s that.

“How–? Why–? _How? Why?_ ”

It’s cruelly funny, the way _how_ I got my hands on high-up information about a key Patriot’s contact’s whereabouts is just as relevant as _why_ I would do that for Snow. God, _why?_

And _how?_

I don’t know how to answer either of those questions.

“Well, you have the information,” I say instead of explaining. “What are you going to do with it? Break him out?”

Snow’s eyes narrow. In the candlelight, his eyes almost glow luminescent blue. “This is a setup, isn’t it?” 

I knew this was coming. I _knew_ , and that’s why I should’ve orchestrated him discovering the papers on his own. But I can’t do anything about it now, except say, “No. It’s not.”

“Very convincing, that.” Simon pulls the papers into order, stacked up nice and neat, folds them and then–

“Hell, Snow!” I can barely keep my voice from rising. People are sleeping, and I want as much of Snow to myself as I can have before I go. “Don’t you dare.”

The papers hover an inch from the candle. Snow looks at me. Looks at me. 

What am I to say?

I snatch the papers from his hand before they can get any closer to the fire and sit myself on the edge of his cot to put an extra few feet between the papers and the flame. “They’re real, I promise.” 

“What’s your promise worth?” Snow scowls at me. 

He loses patience so quickly with me, but then, I never give him any reason to be patient. There’s nothing I give him if he waits for it. There’s nothing I give him, ever. What do I say to justify giving him _this?_

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say quietly. It’s not a lie. It’s a truth that feels like it costs more to me than it’s worth to him. I think it is.

Snow runs a hand through his hair. The curls are unruly as ever, mussed from sleep. “Tell me where you got these.”

It isn’t hard to tell. The custom stamp’s on the corner of it– what did he think I found them blowing in the wind on the sidewalk? “Right off Hugh Percy’s desk.”

Snow’s expression flickers. He almost looks impressed. He wouldn’t be impressed if he knew how easy it was; if I was a footman there or the like, perhaps that would be impressive, but it’s an easy feat as the son of the Earl. “And how were _you_ in Earl Percy’s house?”

“Story for another day?” I open the folded papers and smooth over the wrinkles. “Point is, they’re here now. You’ve got the information you need.”

“Story for tonight, more like. You’re the story-teller–”

“Reader–”

“Well, you can’t expect me to trust this.” Snow’s not giving me any new information. I _know_ that this looks as strange as strange can be. “Why are you giving this to me? You didn’t think I’d really fall for it?”

“Why would I give it to you if it was a trap? You’re not that much of an idiot.” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “Just– believe it, alright? I’m leaving tomorrow, Snow. Why would I give you something like that if I wasn’t even around to see you get caught?”

Snow’s watching me, something akin to curiosity on his face. “You’re a good actor,” he says. Again, that absent tone, like most of his mind isn’t on the conversation at hand.

A good actor.

As if I’m pretending to care. No, Snow. _I’m a good actor because I’ve pretended not to care so well, you don’t believe me when I say I do._

The candlelight flickers, the house stays quiet, the darkness feels less close and more lonely now that the two of us aren’t pressed so close. His cot is thin, stuffed with straw. He’s had to sleep on this all year because I took his bed, and I’m just now thinking it’s uncomfortable. 

I watch him. His brows are drawn together almost comically, so focused I’d laugh if I didn’t care about what he’s thinking of as much as I do. But I do.

He’s thinking, working up to some conclusion. 

And then he straightens, his head coming up and his curls rumpling under his fingers as he pushes his hair back. “I’ve got it,” he mutters, his voice tinged with triumph. “I’ve got it. You’ll come with us.”

“I…” I fail to see why this would be a _good_ thing for Snow. “With you?” 

My heart skips though– a little bit more time with him. That’s more than I could hope for, I suppose.

Snow nods emphatically. “You’ll come with me and Penny, and then, if we get caught, you get caught too.”

It makes sense. It makes… a lot of sense. “Alright,” I say. I’ll help them, too. I’ll help them in any way I can, if he’ll let me. “I’m in.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Two.

Three.

I start counting the seconds, watching Snow lean back, his arms crossed, watching me. His eyes find mine, blue, luminescent blue, and he stares me down.

It’s like he’s waiting me out, waiting for me to give in.

I won’t give in, whatever game he’s up to. I don’t want to.

We’re staring at each other now; he’s watching me like he’s waiting and I’m drinking him in because this is the first time I’ve been able to stare at him with him watching– his eyes, the line of this throat and the cut of his jaw, the tumble of his hair and the peek of his chest I get at the collar of his nightclothes. The collar is unbuttoned because even in early March, when the winter chill still hangs in the air like a ghost, he’s warm. He’s so warm. 

At 245 seconds, Snow breaks the silence.

“So?” he presses. “Are you going to call it off?”

Ah, that’s what he was waiting for me to do. Back out.

“Snow,” I say softly. “I’m going to help you. I’ll stay in America to help you if I need to.”

I…

Hate the night. 

It’s the night’s fault that I’m saying things like this; that things I want come out of my mouth as if they’re the things I want to say. 

Hell, what did I just say? _What did I just say?_ I didn’t even mean it. I want to go home to England more than I’ve ever wanted anything except for Snow; I’m not staying in the American colonies to get Snow’s friend out of jail.

Even though it’s my fault he’s in jail. Those horrid, dark, cramped and dirty cells where people die sick and young. Snow’s friend. _Simon’s_ friend.

Maybe I did mean it.

But that would be the worst decision I’ve ever made.

Maybe.

And I’m _still_ talking. “I just want to make it right, that’s all. No need to get in a tizzy.”

Snow doesn’t wait for me to take the word back; no, he seems assured I’m joking, and he’s– he’s– he’s got me by the collar, hauling me to the bedroom door until I find my own footing and shove him away, none too gently. I can walk much quieter when I’m not being dragged.

The hallway is dark, and oddly enough, puts me in mind of the night I crept out with Snow’s going away letter tucked close, looking for a candle. It’s silent, and past midnight now, not a rumble or murmur from the outside. Boston is asleep, the house is asleep, and even our footsteps sound loud, though we’re both walking as softly as we can. I think. Snow seems to be _trying_ to walk softly, though of course it’s working as well a man trying to figure a lady’s lacings.

“What’re you dragging me into now?” I hiss at him, shutting our bedroom door silently as I can behind us. 

We’re not _going_ now, not without a plan and certainly not in our nightclothes, but if anyone were to run into the task just as we are, it would be Snow. It feels almost romantic, the two of us under cover. Like a spy romance, one of the embarrassingly… indecent ones where they kiss in closets and fall in love with their enemies. Not that I’ve read many of those.

“We’re going to wake up Penny,” he tells me.

Penelope. Good God, how embarrassing. Sometimes I’m half sure she’s figured me out already, and this might be the thing to tip the scales. I hope it doesn’t; there’s no way she’d keep it from Snow, and then… well. Snow could probably see it too, and blackmail the devil out of me under charges of sodomy. 

Although I’m not sure he would.

Would he?

He’s not exactly the sort to do that to anyone, even someone he hates as much as me.

Snow reaches for the doorknob, but it swings open before he can grab it.

“You two are louder than you think,” Penelope whispers, holding the door open. “It took you long enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments!! They make me so happy, I don't even have the words.


	15. I think that I could be of some assistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to figure out how to break Shepard out when Baz and Simon won't stop staring at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, all!! Have this chapter full of glaring and arguing.

**PENNY**

Simon looks angry. Well, he looks thoroughly confused, which makes him look almost angry unless you know him well– partially because not understanding things frustrates him quickly.

Basilton looks a bit shaken, almost, if that’s the right word. Shocked, but not quite in a bad way, as if he’s had a quiet revelation. 

I’m not sure what they were talking about, but I think, for once, Basilton hasn’t done something bad, because I could hear the tone of Simon’s low voice, none of it so furious as the two of them used to be. 

“What is it? Why couldn’t it wait until the morning?” 

I settle myself on the edge of my bed, and Basilton, looking awkward, stands against the wall, smoothing over his woolen night clothes. Simon, with far less awkwardness, sits on my bed with his legs crossed, and something flashes over Basilton’s face. Amusement? Exasperation? He looks almost fond, though perhaps it’s only the shaky light of the candle I’ve lit.

Simon shoots a look at Basilton when Basilton opens his mouth. “Baz’s leaving for England tomorrow unless he’s not, so we have to figure this out before he goes. He wants to help us get Shepard out, but we’re probably not going, because he gave me information about where Shepard is to help us and it’s probably not helpful.”

Basilton is definitely amused, and if I didn’t know him well, I’d put every last bloody penny on him being fond… but perhaps he _is_ fond. I haven’t forgotten that goodbye I witnessed; I don’t think I ever will. It’s one of the most curious things I’ve ever seen.

“Snow, you’re not making any sense,” he says, not unkindly. “Even Penelope can’t be expected to puzzle that out.”

Simon crosses his arms and glares at Basilton; the fondness is evidently not a two-way street. “Fine.” He stares at Basilton. Glaring, presumably, only his mouth isn’t so tight, and his expression isn’t so angry. It just turns into looking. “You explain, then.”

Basilton looks pleased; he smooths his shirtfront, and Simon’s eyes follow the movement as if he suspects Basilton is playing some sort of magic trick. “I have some information on your friend Shepard’s whereabouts that I got from Lieutenant General Hugh Percy’s desk. Snow doesn’t trust the information, because it’s coming from me–” His face does something here, something akin to a wince, almost, “And I agreed to come with you so that if you get caught, I do too. To assure him that I’m not… leading you falsely.”

I blow out a breath. “Much better, thank you,” I murmur, and Basilton flashes Simon a sharp smile that has Simon narrowing his eyes. They keep exchanging looks, and I block them and their nonsense out; I have to parse through what, exactly, this means.

“It’s not happening tonight,” I say, just in case either of them thinks it might– Basilton wouldn’t, but Simon would. “We know where he is, but we don’t know how to get him out. So unless Basilton is staying, I don’t see what we can do with this– but!” I stop Simon, who’s opening his mouth– “It would be foolish to throw this away, even if it does come from a suspicious source. Is this Basilton’s handwriting?”

“He could be faking it,” Simon says. 

I wait. 

He sighs.“But no, it isn’t.”

Basilton shoots Simon a look. “As Snow was going to say, I’m sure, before he got sidetracked with my potential deception, I’m willing to stay in the colonies to carry this out.”

I laugh. “Sure! Stay all you want.” I turn back to Simon.

“Penny, I think he means it, for once.”

Basilton’s posture is stiff. He inclines his head. “I do.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I inform Simon, giving Basilton what I hope to be a quelling look. Of all the lies and truths Basilton has told, this is the one Simon’s suddenly sure is true? It’s the most outrageous one yet. “I thought you missed England desperately. What happened to that? And I don’t see a single thing in it for you if you stay.”

“You’d be surprised,” Basilton murmurs.

Simon sits up as if ready to physically pounce. “Really? Whadaya got riding on your staying here? Is someone paying you to get us arrested? I bet that’s it.”

“Good God, Snow, let a man be.” Basilton’s expression twists, and he seems to shrink into himself just a little. “I can do good things for the good of them.”

“Sure you can.” Simon frowns at Basilton. “I mean… sure you can. But not when it comes to me, clearly.”

I sigh. “Not everything’s about you.”

“Thank you, Penelope.” Basilton speaks smoothly over Simon’s sputtering, seeming to have regained a bit of his footing. “I’m not fond enough of my family to want to go back, at the moment.”

Simon scoffs. “Really.”

I don’t think they’ve broken eye contact for a solid couple minutes. 

Basilton’s eyes narrow. “That’s all I want to say about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“Oh.” Simon’s voice softens, and his glare melts away. “Your mother.” 

Basilton is still. “Shut up, will you?”

Simon swallows, and to my utter astonishment, he says, “Yeah.” And he does. Now they’re just staring at each other, and the oddity of the situation builds, and builds, and builds. Basilton’s cheeks look pinkish in the firelight.

I step between them, because I don’t think there’s any other way to get Simon’s eyes off of Basilton. “I hope you have some ideas about how to get into that prison,” I say instead, “Because knowing where he is is only the tip of the iceberg.”

Basilton makes a face at me and looks away, something in his eyes. I don’t like it; there’s something he isn’t telling us, and it’s important. _Relevant,_ I can tell. I wonder how to ask him about the letter I found him still holding in that jacket, and whether that has something to do with this. 

“I don’t,” he says quietly. “I don’t have anything at the moment.” 

I can’t be sure, but I think he’s lying. He’s not looking at either of us, and his voice has a strange note to it. 

“I’ll let you know if I do.”

“I’m not sure if that’s true,” I press. “Whatever you’re thinking of, say it. Out with it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have anything,” he repeats.

Simon yawns. It’s still nighttime. “You’re a schemer if I ever saw one. You can’t have nothing, still.”

Basilton rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a big collection of evil plans lined up for breaking one of my criminal friends out of prison.” Simon’s words seem to revitalize him. “I’d expect that from you, maybe. If you knew how to plan.”

Simon glares. “Because I have so many criminal friends.”

“Yes.”

“Oh for goodness sake, both of you.” I push gently at Simon’s back and wave him to the door. “Off with you. There are better times to do this, and it’s not going to work if you can’t get five minutes without trying to bite each other’s heads off.”

Simon sighs and gets up, clearly unsatisfied, but also tired and smart enough to realize this isn’t going anywhere. We can do this in the day perfectly fine, and he knows it.

Basilton watches him for a moment as he pushes open the door and tells me goodnight, and there’s something in his face I don’t like. He _wants_ something from Simon, and from the look on his face, it’s something Simon won’t give. I’m not sure what he wants, but he isn’t in this to right some terrible wrong with Shepard… I think he’s here to get something off of Simon.

Basilton moves for the door.

“Wait,” I say quietly. Basilton stills; I know he’s heard me. Ahead, Simon’s footsteps continue. “I wanted to ask you something…”

I can hear Basilton slowly close my bedroom door and move back towards me as I rifle through the papers in my drawer. 

He’s quieter than Simon, and I almost understand the way Simon feels now; Basilton could be a night-terror if he wanted. I can imagine him as evil, as an assassin. It’s the darkness right now, or the look he gave Simon’s retreating form, or the mystery that surrounds him and this letter– whatever it is, he feels more threatening now. 

I square my shoulders. “Can you tell me what this is?”

 _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy, found among the possessions of Simon of the Salisbury household_ , _September 20th, 1775._

Even in the weak light of the candle, I can see him go pale, his expression flashing panicked for a moment, and then carefully blank. But not quickly enough.

“It’s a letter.”

“Yes.” I stare at him. He stares back at me, but I can wait longer. He’s in a hole and I’m on steady ground; he’ll want to climb his way out of it more that I have any inclination to move. I can see the thoughts tumbling through his mind– he’ll speak first.

It surprises me what he says, though. 

“Have– does Simon know about this?”

“Simon…?” I can’t help but echo. It’s important, of course, but hardly the most important thing. The most important thing may be that Basilton is a spy… or a failed one, a least, and that his real name is here. Basilton is more important here.

To me.

But Basilton looks on the edge of frantic, although you wouldn’t be able to tell if you hadn’t lived a year with him. 

“Snow,” he corrects himself quickly, urgently. “Does he– has he seen this?”

“Well, yes.” I flip it over to the message General Thomas wrote. “It’s his letter.” It’s on the other side; I flip it back. _Found among the possessions of Simon of the Salisbury household_ … “But you knew that.”

Basilton shakes his head quickly, his fingers twitching as if he’s restraining himself from snatching it from me. “No, I mean does he know… about this.” His voice hesitates. “Me.”

I tuck it away just in case he’s actually planning to take it from me. “No,” I reassure him, not sure why it matters so much, “I wanted to know what it was about before I said anything, otherwise I’d hear no end to his speculation.”

Basilton’s eyes close for a moment, and he pulls his eyes away from my pocket. “How could this possibly be construed as evil? I didn’t turn it in.”

I know, and it’s eating at me. _Why?_ “He’d find away.”

Basilton’s shoulders come up, and remember, suddenly, that he’s just my age. He’s not some sort of… fifty-year-old mastermind. He’s got teenage feelings like wanting the approval of his peers, even if he despises Simon. “Don’t I know it.”

“Well, why didn’t you turn it in? I hardly see you blackmailing him, unless you are and I don’t know about it. I don’t think Simon’s that good of an actor.”

“I’m not– there’s no reason.”

“No reason. You were going to send this huge piece of information, but you didn’t. For no reason.” I think about the beginning of the war. It feels like a long, long time ago, and yet it didn’t feel like the war had _really_ started until Simon left for Dorchester. I guess that’s how the war works– how _life_ works– nothing’s _quite_ so real as the things that affect you personally. “You realize how big this is? The war started over Lexington and Concord, and if the British got these weapons that would be incredible for morale.”

“Smoke and mirrors. Nothing especially helpful.”

Basilton has clearly never gone to war. To be fair, neither have I, but I can at least understand the importance of certain things to some degree simply by living in the colonies, on the side of the underdogs. “Do you know, people say _never send a man to war without a kiss from his sweetheart._ ”

Basilton’s pale face flushes and I realize that has different implications to him than I was intending. “I’ve never heard that before.”

“People say it. I _also_ have questions about that.”

Basilton looks horrified and no small bit afraid. “Christ, Penelope, I don’t have time for an interrogation.”

“Simon’s got you cursing.” 

I think I know something about Basilton and then I turn around and he’s gotten all new again. I thought he didn’t curse… I thought he came from the best family anyone could wish for, British aside. I wonder what about Basilton’s mother Simon knows and I don’t. 

I push forward. “One thing at a time, I suppose. They say the men need something to fight for, or they won’t come back. Sweethearts do nicely. It’s about spirit– if the war started over these weapons, England would be _thrilled_ to get their hands on them. Like when you and Simon get mad at each other. You hate each other after the argument, and you still fight, but whoever won whatever the argument started on…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Basilton looks almost impressed. “Morale.” He seems to feel the word on his tongue, like he’s never heard of emotional importance before.

“So why–”

“I didn’t realize it was that valuable, that’s all.”

“But–” 

His eyebrows draw together. “Are you going to tell Snow or not?”

I don’t know what to think of him. “I don’t see why it should matter to you.”

Basilton splutters. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him splutter before. “I– _morale_. Of course.” He’s evidently lying, but I don’t think I’m going to get it out of him. Today, that is. “Because he needs to trust me, or we’ll not get your friend out of jail at all. You know that? I need him to trust me, just– just for now.”

His eyes are sad. I’ve never looked at him closely, but I suppose his face is made for looking sad– either that, or he’s sad a lot of the time, or both. But right now there’s a spark of sadness in his eyes that borders on pain. 

I’ll never understand that boy. 

But I’m clearly getting no answers out of him. “Well, go on then.”

Basilton goes, and he has the nerve to give me a small bow on the way out, knowing full well my lack of answers is itching me.

“Can’t sleep?” I hear him say to Simon through the wall. He doesn’t sound hateful. 

There’s a mutter.

I fall asleep to the low, quiet sounds of Basilton reading a fairytale.

After that nighttime ordeal, I would have liked to sleep in for a long time, and Lucy always lets us; we’re not expected to be up and at it in the morning if we’re still tired the way other houses require their hands to be. 

But we don’t get that choice.

At bare sunrise, there’s a pounding on the door.

I haul myself out of bed even though I hear Lucy hurrying to the door, rubbing my eyes and pulling on my clothes. What is it this time? There’s no peace in this house.

The sunlight seems too bright, and I almost put my shoes on the wrong feet, trying to pull my hair back at the same time. 

By the time I make it to the doorway, Simon and Basilton are already there, Basilton’s clothes crisp and clean, Simon looking as rumpled as I’ve ever seen him. Boys have much less to do before they’re deemed presentable than ladies do.

Lucy’s pale, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“What is it?” I ask, but no one’s paying attention to me. Even Basilton looks faintly horrified.

“Surely– surely you can give me longer?” Lucy is speaking to a man at the door, dressed in a uniform and holding a semi-thick stack of paper, his hat crooked. “He left. I couldn’t have stopped him from leaving; it’s hardly my fault, or the childrens’.”

Ah, that’s what this is about. I’m impressed with Lucy’s ability to lie directly to the officer’s face; she practically hauled Davy out the door. Is it about… what. A lawsuit?”

Simon catches my expression and leans closer to me, his voice shaky. “They’re taking the property in a week, because the man who owns the land wants it to rent to someone else, and Mr. Salisbury isn’t here to pay rent.”

And women can’t pay rent.

So.

“Officer,” Lucy is saying. “You must understand, we live here. We can pay just as much as a man-led household.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, there’s no such thing as a woman-led household, and I doubt that you can earn as much as the… ah, Mr. David Salisbury did.”

“He only wrote essays,” Simon blurts out, “Opinion pieces. Hardly a pretty penny.”

Basilton hisses at him, jabbing his elbow into Simon’s side. If he didn’t, I would’ve shushed Simon himself; we don’t need anyone else looking into what Davey was writing. From the look on Simon’s face, it surprises him just as much as it surprises me that Basilton is taking our side. He was taunting us about losing the house just weeks ago.

I suppose now that he’s staying.

Presumably.

“I’m sorry,” the officer says, not looking sorry at all. “I don’t control these things; he wants you off the land.”

Lucy’s jaw sets. “Fine. Have a good day, sir. We will be out in a week.”

She shuts the door in his face before he can respond.

“We won’t _really,_ will we?” Simon asks as soon as the latch clicks. He sounds young and afraid, a child. I feel like a child, too. 

Lucy’s the only parent we have.

But Lucy shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what we’ll do. But I’m going to go see if I can figure anything else right now.”

And with that, she grabs her bonnet and ties it on. She stands in front of the door for a moment, squaring her shoulders, and then she opens the door. “Take care of yourselves for lunch.”

We watch her go. Everything feels small right now; Basilton just a teenager, Simon and I stranded and lost like children in a market square, Lucy just one woman in the big, loud world.

It feels as if we are all ants and we’ve suddenly stepped out of the anthill to realize we aren’t the big ones.

“To hell with that,” Simon shuts the door, hard, his eyes angry and his shoulders tight. It hurts my heart to see him, and even Basilton looks sorry for him… or something. His eyes are dim, in any case. “One week? Fuck that bastard.”

“It makes sense.” Basilton goes to sit in Lucy’s rocking chair. 

Simon bristles. 

“Think. We paid last week, and they must’ve realized it wasn’t David on those forms. Then, they come when they finish processing and have the time. They give us one week; that’s two weeks total.” Basilton holds up two fingers. “It’s two weeks to pack, and then two weeks to ready the house for the next people who stay.” He counts off two more. 

I can practically _feel_ Simon glowering beside me. 

“Because you pay monthly, don’t you?” Basilton flutters his four fingers for a moment before glancing at Simon.

“Thank you, Baz,” Simon says through gritted teeth. “That’s very rational of you.”

Basilton drops his hand, something flashing across his face, something I might call guilt. “I didn’t mean to–”

“No, sure.” Simon stares at him as if daring him to keep talking.

Basilton keeps talking. “I thought it would help if–”

“I said _sure_ , didn’t I?” Simon glares harder. 

Basilton keeps his mouth shut, his lips pressed together in a thin, displeased line. For a moment. And then: “You can’t hold the property?”

Simon’s eyes narrow, even though it seems Basilton’s asking in good faith. In fact, I think he may have been explaining in good faith, too.

Basilton is so strange.

“No. I’m not… registered under anything. They just found me and raised me.”

Basilton stares, his mouth opening and closing. In thickly populated, loud, busy Boston, there are plenty of comings and goings and people that aren’t really legally registered, or who live on the streets, or orphans who never got papers.

“You mean, you’re not on any records?” If Basilton’s from a big, rich family, though, it’s probably unthinkable to not be thoroughly registered under the law. 

“Never adopted me, not officially.”

“That explains the report,” Basilton mutters under his breath absently, but I hear it, and Simon does too.

“Report?”

Basilton looks at us both, his breath sucking in. Simon’s staring at him so hard, he could burn holes right through Basilton’s thick jacket. “The… quartering report, that they gave me of the occupants. You didn’t have a last name, or a middle.”

Lying again? I can’t tell. I really can’t. 

“Well,” I say, because if someone doesn’t say something, Simon will keep staring at Basilton until the end of time, “Until Lucy tells us we’re in thick trouble, we should think about Shepard.”

Simon’s eyes flash. “We _are_ in thick trouble.”

“Trust her,” Basilton tells him. “She could get us out of this scrape yet.”

“Us?” Simon echoes in a rising voice. “Since when are we an _us_?”

“Since– we’re not! But– I’m here to help Shepard.” Basilton lifts his chin, but he doesn’t stand. “Can we save him before the week is out, so I don’t have to be kicked out with you?”

“Well, we enjoyed your pleasantness while it lasted,” I cut in before this gets out of hand again. “But perhaps we should lay out what we know, and stop worrying about the house for now.”

I want to. I know when Simon gets upset he wants to dive in and get his hands dirty, to _do something_ , but I feel better pulling the problem apart, focusing my mind until there’s nothing else but the problem and the building answer.

And in any case, it’s what the situation calls for.

“We know that Shepard’s being held in Whelk’s Prison. Down by the Old South Church.” Basilton watches me leave the room. 

I can hear Simon say, “Allegedly,” as I rustle through papers until I find a clear one and a quill.

“I’ll put it down as _know_.” I write it out, slowly. Simon scowls. I can’t write as quickly as Basilton, so perhaps he should be writing it, but it helps me to do this part. “We know that the prisons are understaffed, so the number of guards may not be as bad as you might think, and they’re crowded, so there’s always a good chance there’s a lot of disorganization and that losing a single prisoner won’t go noticed for a while.”

I write only _understaffed guards, disorganized, overcrowded, good getaway time_.

“So what don’t we know?” I draw a quick line to create two columns.

“How to pull it off,” Basilton volunteers snidely.

“Bugger off,” Simon snaps at him. Then he looks at me. “Er… how we’ll… you know.”

“Pull it off?” Basilton snickers.

“Stop. God. Once, you two. One time, please.” I bite the tip of the quill. “We don’t know… the guard shifts, I suppose. That could be helpful.”

Simon leans forward. “Actually, there’s a thing I heard when I was… away.”

“No need to beat around it like a coward,” Basilton cuts in, leaning back and regarding Simon. “Out fighting with the revolutionaries.”

“Yes. Off fighting the war for our independence.” Simon won’t stop looking at Basilton for more than five seconds. Hasn’t since… since… last night, or even before that. 

I groan. “Please, Basilton. Simon, please stop staring at Basilton and focus. Basilton, please let Simon speak.”

Basilton flushes a deep pink and looks away, out the window to the cloudy March morning, his hands tightening where they’re clasped on the wooden tabletop. 

Simon opens his mouth in protest, but he settles when I tell Basilton off. He peers over my shoulder at my writing for a moment, parsing out the words, and I’m grateful there’s no comment from Basilton about his slow reading; I’m not sure Basilton is even paying attention to anything but the window right now.

“While I was there, General Thomas said… something about breaking someone out. That if you can get the right person’s papers, some form of identification, that’s all they need. Not a notice of release but just–”

“Papers of someone with the authority will free someone?”

“Yeah.”

“No questions asked? Are you sure that’s… a thing?”

“None. He did it. Thomas. He’d know.”

I bite my quill again and write it down. I don’t say I don’t think there’s any way we’re getting our hands on someone’s papers high enough up to pass through, but I think it. There’s practically no way, unless we’re… working…

“Basilton,” I say, turning to Basilton and pointing with my quill so quickly he starts and his chair screeches, “how did you get Shepard’s identification again?”

Simon goes back to staring at Basilton. 

_Honestly._

“I…”

“He got it off of Hugh Percy’s desk,” Simon fills in for Basilton, when there’s a silence.

“Yes.”

I grin. I can’t help it; this couldn’t have fit better. “So you go back, whenever you… go. And you get his identification papers.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, “How did you say you ended up at Hugh Percy’s office again? Oh, right, you didn’t.”

Basilton looks like an animal cornered. “I… because I was training with the army, of course. I mean– packing up. To leave.”

“They’re leaving today. You can go then, and get it. I don’t imagine there could be a better opportunity if you could make one yourself.” My smile melts when Basilton’s expression doesn’t change. 

He doesn’t speak or move for a moment, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, his eyes on Simon, who’s staring back aggressively, having taken a seat beside me and across from Basilton’s position. Their eyes are like magnets. 

“I don’t think I’m in my– in Hugh Percy’s good graces at the moment.” Basilton speaks carefully, as if picking his words by hand. “And I have my doubts I’ll be let back.”

“What did you do to him that got you thrown out, then? And is that why you’re throwing in with us?” Simon leans over the table, and Basilton watches him, not backing down. Simon’s chair scrapes against the floor. “Because you don’t have anywhere else to go? I knew you had a different reason for staying!”

Basilton sneers, but I think there’s something else there. Resignation, even defeat. It puts me in mind of the strangely sad expression he had last night, asking me to have Simon trust him, just until Shepard got free. Something’s going on with him. 

“Of course,” he says after a long pause. “Why else would I agree to spend more time with you?”

“Exactly.” Simon seems to miss the sarcastic tone in Basilton’s voice.

I think it’s sarcastic; it sounds sarcastic. Goodness, I can’t figure him out. I wonder if it has something to do with what he wants from Simon, whatever is.

Basilton just sighs.

I try to bring the conversation back around. “You’re sure you can’t be let back close enough to get to his desk?” I don’t even know how _with us_ he is. If that’s something he’d even do to get this done.

Basilton taps his fingers on the table. “No. You don’t think he’ll appreciate my taking Shepard’s papers, do you?” 

“Will he notice they’re gone?” I press. Hugh Percy has to have a lot of papers. I’d expect, anyway.

“Maybe not. But… let’s just say he knows what I… it’s just not a good idea.” This is the most uncertain I’ve ever heard Basilton. “It’s not going to work.

Simon waves his hand. “He’s useless, Penny.”

Basilton stiffens and sits up straight, his eyes burning into Simon. Even I have to agree that was little out there. “Oh, except for the part where I found you Shepard’s location?” 

Simon frowns. “You’re only doing it for yourself, anyway.”

“Well? I’m still helpful.” Basilton opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more. “I… could… nevermind.”

Simon narrows in on it like he’s a treasure-hunter who has caught sight of a gold piece. “What?”

“Nothing.” Basilton is staring at his hands, his fingers tapping, his face flushed. “It’s nothing.”

“You just said that because you want to get under my skin,” Simon accuses. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Basilton agrees.

Simon growls in his throat. “Well? What is it?”

“I just did it for attention!” Basilton stops tapping and slaps his hands flat on the table.

“No you didn’t.”

“Make up your mind!”

Simon blows out a breath. “Baz.”

“Snow.”

“Will you… tell me what it is?” I can tell he’s trying to soften his glare and his voice, but he’s only half successful.

Basilton’s expression flickers. There it is again: he looks almost fond. “Are you trying to _sweet talk_ me, Snow?”

Simon’s brow creases. “Well? Will you?”

Basilton’s cheeks are going redder and redder at a steady pace. “I think I can get you in.”

Simon and I both wait. There’s clearly more to be said there.

Finally, I press, “With General Percy’s identification papers?”

Basilton shakes his head. “With mine.”


	16. We move as one through the night, we have one shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to change frighteningly fast. Or exhilaratingly. It depends who you ask, I guess.

**SIMON**

I don’t know what to think. 

I don’t know what to _do_.

We’re at the doors of the prison now, and I’m thinking of throwing in the towel and turning tail and all the things that General Thomas was supposed to have trained out of me.

Baz didn’t even explain who he is, he just told us to trust him.

I don’t know why I did.

We’re at the doors of the prison now, and I have _no idea_ why I trusted him. 

Do I trust him now?

We’re at the doors of the prison. 

It’s almost the end of the week, and sure, Baz has been shockingly… civil. Almost kind. But do I _trust_ him?

It’s our second to last night in our own house, and we’re all packed and we don’t really know where we’re going. But I _do_ know that it would be good to get this done _before_ we have to move out (onto the street, for now) or else we may not get around to it for another month.

But I’m still second-guessing this.

I can’t believe I didn’t foresee Mrs. Salisbury needing Penny’s help tonight; of course she would. Penny’s the one other one who knows what does and doesn’t matter with the house… we’ve got everything sentimental that matters, and a good wagon besides, but when it comes to practicalities, Penny’s the one Mrs. Salisbury needs.

So it’s me and Baz, and I don’t even know if I trust him.

“Er– Baz…” I mumble as a guard comes around the side. 

He must hear it in my voice, because he seizes my elbow and mutters, “Christ, _now_?” 

The guard is almost on us. “Goodnight, fellows. What do you want? Visiting?”

“Sorry. We’re not emotionally ready, it seems.” Baz says this very calmly, but there’s an undercurrent of impatience. I half expect him to throw me at the feet of the guard and say _take him away; I can’t stand any more of him._

But he doesn’t. He pulls me around the corner until we’re standing by a tree, looking over at the Whelk’s prison, his hand so tight around my arm, I think he may be cutting off the flow of my blood.

“If you’re getting cold feet, now’s a good time to tell me,” he hisses. 

I pull my arm away. “I’m not getting cold feet. Tonight’s our night.”

“It better be. This is the last one we’ve got.” Baz frowns at me, lit by moonlight. His dark hair isn’t pulled back tonight, and he’s bundled up fit for the dead of winter, complete with a thick scarf. “Unless you want to juggle that later?”

I realize I’m looking at where I usually catch sight of his pale neck over his high collars and look away. His hair spills over his scarf there, instead, and I don’t think I mind.

I don’t know why I would mind.

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

“I don’t want to, you know that.” But now that I think about it, it doesn’t make that much sense to _have_ to do it before we lose the house; it’s only the difference of a day. What sort of hassle are we trying to avoid anyway? We can always come back another night. “Or… we could.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Baz takes me by the shoulders. He’s got a good couple inches on me, and I have to look up at him, or else it will look like I’m looking away and backing down. His eyes are like silver in the moonlight. “Simon Snow, will you trust me this once?”

“Trust you?” I’m too surprised to say anything else. 

He’s gazing at me with the strangest look in his eyes, as if he cares about this a whole lot more than I thought he did. It gives me a funny feeling in my stomach and a skip in my chest. Bloody hell, what’s he doing to me?

“Please,” he whispers. His voice is so quiet; I know it’s not a word he can muster any louder than that. “Just for tonight.”

“You’re telling me to trust you?”

“I can’t _make_ you trust me.” Baz shakes his head, and more of his hair spills over his shoulders. It’s gotten longer over the past few months, and it has a bit of a wave that shines by light of the moon. “But if you don’t, we shouldn’t go in there.”

I stare at him. His breath makes hot, short puffs in the cold air– a March night is never very warm– and I can practically feel an urgency to him, even though he’s not shaking or begging or fiddling with anything. He looks deathly still, watching me and waiting. 

He looks sort of beautiful.

“How am I supposed to trust you when I don’t know you?” I whisper. I don’t plan to say it, but when it’s out of my mouth, I suddenly feel that it’s true. 

Though Baz opens his mouth, he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know who you really are, since you won’t tell me, and I don’t know why you’re doing all of this, and I don’t know why you’ve changed so much. Do you remember when I left for the army? What was that?” I shove my hand through my hair. “What do I really know about you, except that you’re smart and cruel and—?”

Baz seems to lose words for a moment, staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads. There’s a shine to his eyes, almost. “Smart,” he repeats softly, and then louder, “And?”

I nearly said beautiful. 

It’s because of the moonlight, and because my mind is half gone with everything that’s going on: Shepard, and the house, and Penny not here, and Baz not leaving, and Baz looking at me like that, at Baz _looking_ like that, and Baz’s hands on my shoulders. They’re a bit cold through my shirt; Baz told me I was insane to not even wear a coat tonight, but I feel just fine in a good shirt. Something about his presence makes me warm; it must be that I get angry just looking at him. 

And his really black eyelashes.

And his grey eyes.

And his lips.

I sort of want to warm his hands.

In any case, I didn’t mean beautiful. I just almost said it out of absentmindedness. “And mysterious,” I say instead.

“I’ll answer your questions after tonight,” Baz says quietly. It’s so quiet, it could be a murmur. Is it? He’s close, I realize. Close enough that I can hear him even though it isn’t midnight and the streets are a bit noisy, and even though his voice is so very soft right now. “I promise. It’s… a bit much to get into right now.”

Someone walks down the street and gives us a dark look from beneath the brim of their hat, and I think he may be mistaking us for lovers.

Somehow, the idea is… pleasant. Because it means from _someone’s_ point of view, we could work together, and that idea of us being a team is something that jolts me out of my thoughts.

I’ve been staring again. 

The line of his jaw peaks over his scarf. I’ve been staring at it, and how he’s clean shaven and smooth even though it’s ten o’clock at night. 

“Er…” I bring my eyes to his. “Okay? I guess I’ll trust you for the next two hours.”

Baz sighs. “Alright. That isn’t what trust is, but I’ll take it. Please don’t act surprised. Don’t react at all.”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about now. Just when I think I’m catching up to his page, he’s off again, and I’m stumbling to keep up. “To what?”

For a moment, he keeps my gaze, something warm in his eyes that sends a tingling to my stomach. “You’ll see.” He looks away. The loss of his eye contact is more jolting than I expected, and I feel cold.

I follow him, muttering, “And you wonder why I don’t trust you.”

But I think I do. I think he could get me hung right now if he wanted to, but maybe it’s the way he softened up over the past week– and even before then, if I really think about it– or maybe it’s the look in his eyes; he… seems genuine. 

Maybe I’m a gullible fool, but I trust him.

The cells reek.

They smell as if they’re stuffed with nothing but full chamber pots that no one has taken the time to throw, or like the prisoners aren’t provided with any outhouse at all. The rare window is barred, the stones are covered in filth and moss and retain a coldness that seeps into the air.

Baz makes a face, and I realize, posh git that he is, he may have never been anywhere like this in his life. He’s walking carefully around all the puddles, keeping his arms close to his body as if he’s afraid his sleeve will brush the dirty stones, even though the corridors are wide enough for us to walk shoulder to shoulder, if we wanted to.

We don’t.

He walks ahead of me, somehow still elegant and poised even as he skirts the wet patches like a timid animal.

“You need to identify him,” Baz murmurs to me. “We take him to the guard and I tell him to free him.”

“Yeah,” I mutter back, “We’ve been over it a dozen times.” I already knew it the first time, and now he’s just insulting me.

They don’t know the prisoners by name; there are too many of them and they don’t care. We have to go in and find Shepard first; it’ll be faster. 

The bars are grimy, but Baz waves his hand imperiously with such assuredness that the guard doesn’t even ask who he is, just opens the gates for us when I’ve found the right cell. 

Shepard is there alright, his head tipped and lolling to one side, his shirt torn and smeared with dirt and other things I don’t want to think about, the streaks of filth barely visible in the weak light.

I move to step in, but the guard stops me. “I’ll fetch him. You’re not allowed inside the cells.” He turns to Baz, the gate unlocked but still held closed. “Authorized visit?” He’s clearly waiting to see a paper of some sort.

“We checked in at the door,” Baz lies. He lies so easily and smoothly, I go over our interaction with the guard at the door, half convinced we did and I didn’t realize. 

But no, of course we didn’t. Baz just nodded to him like he was allowed to go in, and went in, pulling me behind him.

For a moment, I hold my breath, sure the guard will call Baz out, but Baz’s lie is as assured as everything else he does. There’s pounding down the hall; the prison is loud and chaotic, and it’s clear the guard is hard-pressed to get somewhere else soon. 

With their disorganized understaffing and their all but abandonment of procedure, Baz assured me earlier, there’ll be a good number of tight spots we get slip through with nothing but a well-told lie.

Shepard smells like piss and shit, and he’s limping when the guard hauls him up and pulls him towards the gate, rough and impatient.

“Careful with him,” I snap. “He’s not looking well.”

“Ten minutes for a visit,” is all the guard says, and then he practically drops Shepard on top of me. 

I sling Shepard’s arm over my shoulder, rubbing his back as he hangs his head, eyes closed, trying to find his balance enough to walk with me.

“Hey,” I murmur.

“Simon,” he says back. His voice is scratchy and raw, like he’s been screaming a lot, and his head tips up. He’s looking at me in disbelief. I get the sinking feeling he might think he’s dreaming. “Hello. How’s that quartering situation going with you? Give that Redcoat the boot yet?”

“Er...” I keep rubbing his back, and he leans closer to me, pressed into me so that none of his weight is on his leg. I think it may be broken. I beg the skies that I’ll heal up; I know what a pain it is to have a broken right arm, but a _leg_? I can’t imagine it. “Not quite. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now what matters is getting out of here and taking care of you. Alright, soldier?”

I can feel Baz’s gaze on me; I look up and he’s staring. The expression on his face is more gentle than I’ve ever seen him, and it makes me think of the night when he held my hands. That night has never left my mind. He’s watching, and he seems sort of… sad, watching me, the corner of his mouth tugging down, but the light in his eyes as kind as anything.

And then, of course, he catches me watching and his face goes blank, and then his eyes go sharp and his mouth pulls tight.

“Come on.” He says, his voice clipped and cold. “We haven’t all night.”

“All-right.” Shepard spaces the word like it’s two. “What’s got your pants in a twist?”

Baz looks like he’s going to say something for a moment, but he just shakes his head. “Back the way we came,” he says, and he goes.

The hallways are straight and wide; it’s easy to retrace our previous steps. But I don’t even have to think about the turns; Baz leads us true, and I follow him.

“Who’s that?” Shepard rasps at my shoulder. “Fancy man, looks like.”

I can tell from the stiffening of Baz’s shoulders that he’s heard. “Dunno,” I mutter back, “Never tells me anything about him.”

“Ya trust him?” Shepard stumbles over a rock that’s a bit higher than the rest of the floor stones, and I catch him, wrapping my arm about his waist. “Seems a bit standoffish.”

“More than a bit,” I sigh, “But I haven’t got a choice. He’s your ticket out.”

I can hear Shepard’s raised eyebrow, even though I can’t see it. “Eh? How’dyou figure that?”

I don’t have to answer that; the guard at the door stops us as we get to the threshold to the outside. “Visits are inside, sir. You may not step foot outside the premises. The visit rooms should be used for your meeting.”

“Apologies.” Baz tips his head down a fraction, the tiniest of bows, and lifts his head again, a bit higher than before. The edges of class in his accent make a full appearance. “I am on no visit, but rather, an errand for my father.”

Without a moment’s pause, he reaches into his pocket and pulls his papers from it smoothly—I can’t help but crane my neck a little to see if I can catch a glimpse of them, and Baz’s sharp look tells me he's noticed.

But it turns out I don’t have to, because the guard reads it aloud. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy, son of Earl and Lieutenant General Hugh Percy. Is this you? I need a verbal confirmation.”

I’ve gone weak in the knees. Shepard feels like a sack of bricks on me. My thin shirt doesn’t feel nearly enough; I’m too cold. At my weakness, Shepard stumbles and I can barely right the both of us. _Don’t react_ , I remember Baz saying to me, almost as if it was a dream, a different world ago. 

But how can I not react to this? 

I look to Baz. His eyes are burning into mine, grey and pained. “Yes.” His voice is steady as ever. “That’s me.”

I tear my eyes away.

I don’t even know what to think. 

_Don’t react_. 

This was the man in my house for a year? And I had no idea—I thought, of course, he must be from a rich Loyalist family, but General Hugh Percy’s _son_? I never would’ve thought.

His name is as well-known among Patriots as you can get: the one who rescued the troops we could’ve beat to a pulp when they came after us, way back when in Lexington and Concord.

Shepard’s feet shuffle weakly. In my ear, he whispers in the quietest of whispers, “This is the part where we run for our lives?”

The guard, thankfully, isn’t looking at either of us. He’s looking Baz up and down like he’s assessing a piece of meat, but Baz doesn’t give an inch. He never bloody does. He stands there, chin up, ramrod straight, his eyes cold and his stance just the edge of impatient. He looks like an Earl’s son.

“Alright,” the guard relents gruffly. “So you are. And what does your father want with this one? And what’s the prisoner?”

“Political prisoner,” Baz supplies. “Writer, coordinator, editor, and distributor of an underground newspaper, correspondent of many Patriots. My father would like to bring him in for questioning.”

The guard raises an eyebrow. “We can question him just fine here.”

Baz doesn’t miss a beat. “We will bring him directly back to you, my good man. However, I regret that my father must conduct the interrogation himself, or delegate it to someone very close, for the line of questioning is odd and could potentially wield invaluable information to the war effort.”

“What,” Shepard whispers in my ear, “Is happening?”

“I’m not so sure,” I respond honestly out of the corner of my mouth, “but we’re getting you out; everything else comes later.”

Baz bows once more to the guard, far more deeply this time, and I tip my head down to the guard, hoping that’s enough. I’ve got Shepard slung over me, after all.

The guard sighs. There’s a shout somewhere else, and his head jerks around. He frowns at the paper in his hand for one more moment before handing it back. “You’re cleared, sir. You may take the prisoner off the premises.”

I think I could dance for joy, and I have to look the other way so the guard can’t see the elation on my face. I can see Baz out of the corner of my eye, and he’s as stolid as ever. 

He walks off very calmly.

I follow.

The next couple hours barely matter to me; all I care about is getting Baz alone and questioning the living daylights out of him. 

Mrs. Salisbury throws a silent fit seeing Shepard and immediately hauls him inside, putting on the stove to warm him water for a bath. As soon as he’s in, she comes back out to scold me within an inch of my life for recklessly freeing Shepard.

I can’t help but think it’s undue credit; Baz did it all. All but identify Shepard and carry the man, Baz did everything. 

And he did it perfectly.

Penny’s wild with joy that Shepard is free, and there is a sort of scuffling noise when she goes to bring Shepard a towel when he’s finished with his bath. The sound of it makes me hot in my thin shirt again, and I quickly step outside. 

The world seems normal.

The cots and beds are still inside because there’s no way we’ll bring them, but all the sentimentals are packed in a wagon. Shepard is free; Penny is, I think, in love; the house will no longer be ours by midday tomorrow; Baz is _General Hugh Percy’s son_ ; and the world outside seems _normal_.

I step back inside.

“Get some sleep,” Mrs. Salisbury fusses as the clock strikes midnight. “All of you. Shepard, you especially. Please, rest.”

“I couldn’t take any of your beds, ma’am.” Shepard insists, sitting at the table, looking dead tired. I think he may fall over any moment, sound asleep.

“Share my bed,” Penny volunteers, her cheeks redder than summer cherries. “Please, I wouldn’t mind a bit.”

Shepard’s suddenly wide awake. “I couldn’t,” he says, but he’s smiling hard enough to split his face in two. “Really, that would be terribly improper. I would love to, believe me. More than anything, I would. Another night, perhaps.”

I feel distinctly out of place in this conversation– even with the world falling apart around them, these two are the happiest I’ve ever seen either of them. 

I edge closer to Baz without thinking, until suddenly our shoulders are brushing and I realize I’ve gotten rather close. I shuffle away, but not before he turns toward me sharply, his eyes wide. 

He’s been avoiding me, and even my gaze, since we got back. It’s nice to catch those grey eyes for a moment, but I can’t get a read on them. They look like a storm of too many emotions to parse through.

“You and Penny can take my room,” I offer without thinking first. I should have thought first. “Baz and I will share Penny’s bed; it’s larger. Then Penny doesn’t have to share with anybody.”

There’s a sound. Baz is staring at me openly, his hand so tight around the back of the chair in front of him that his knuckles have gone white. 

“What?” he says, as if to himself. “I don’t—” He seems to realize the rest of us are looking at him, and he’s on the edge of saying something ungenerous. “I mean. Of course.” There’s something in his voice that makes him sound almost afraid.

No one else says anything. Penny is staring. Shepard is looking at us as if seeing us through new eyes and trying to figure out what’s the same and what’s changed. Mrs. Salisbury looks like she’s trying not to smile.

“Of course,” she agrees, and then she and Penny are off, plumping pillows and pulling out sheets. 

I’d expect the house to be bare and empty without everything we have in our little wagon, but when you have to pack up and leave, it really puts into perspective what does and doesn’t matter– so many things we’re leaving behind I don’t care for at all. Most of them Davy chose. 

It’s home not because it’s home but because nothing else is close enough to it.

I’ll miss the bed, but I’ve missed it all year that Baz has been sleeping in it. And we’re taking Mrs. Salisbury’s rocking chair, and with all the things Penny and Mrs. Salisbury have been selling, we won’t be too bad off, even if we’ll have to settle for smaller, and women can really only rent hotel rooms, not houses.

And I’ll miss the yellow curtains, but I only started liking the yellow curtains when Baz called them terrible.

Someone clears their throat behind me.

I turn.

It’s Baz, his hair still down around his shoulders, still dressed up all nice and fancy, although he’s shed his coat and there’s a bit of dirt and grime here and there. He’s holding a candle so that it looks as if he’s got the light of the universe in his palms, standing in the dark doorway to the hallway. 

I set my own candle on the table, weariness washing over me suddenly; I’d forgotten how late it is.

He watches me set it down silently. So silently. Everyone’s in bed, I realize with a start—how long did I spend looking about the house? It’s just the two of us.

The thought makes me strangely uncomfortable. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I think of him anymore; it was so easy to hate him, and I should hate him, son of the Earl and all… but I’m not sure if I do.

“Snow,” Baz says finally. He sounds as awkward as I feel. Imagine. Basilton Pitch, awkward.

I can’t get Baz’s voice out of my head: his accent, the way he knew exactly what to say and how to say it, the way with nothing but words and a tip of his chin, he was able to get Shepard out of jail. Not only that he could—but that he _did_ get Shepard out of jail.

And none of us are in chains yet. 

“Er.” I don’t have anything to say, but I can’t stand the way Baz is looking at me, because I can’t tell what it is. I can never bloody tell what it is. But it looks like he’s waiting for something terrible to happen… and if someone comes pounding on our door looking for a missing prisoner, I don’t know that I’ll be surprised.

Then, I don’t know if I _won’t_ be surprised.

I don’t know what to think about him anymore.

“Are you coming to bed?” Baz says. His cheeks flush too much for it to only be the yellow-orange light of the candle. “I mean—Are you coming… to bed?” He pushes a hand over his eyes and sweeps his hair back from his face in the same motion, a jerky, frustrated gesture. “I _mean_ , are you… Going to go to bed with me?”

I’ve never seen him like this before. Is it the lack of sleep, or is it that I finally know who he is? 

“ _Nevermind_ ,” Baz says before I can speak. “I’m just waiting for you, is all.” 

I say—

“ _I mean_ —,” Baz says.

I can’t help it.

I laugh. “Trouble with your words?” I tease.

Baz looks at me, his expression dark, his eyes flashing, for one moment, and then he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t say anything. He just walks off to Penny’s bedroom, almost as if he’s fleeing.

I pick up my candle and follow him.

He’s staring at Penny’s bed. Whispers come from the room we used to share—Penny and Shepard sound as if they’re having a time of it, and by the look on Baz’s face, we’re going to have the opposite. 

Penny’s bed isn’t meant for two people.

“So.” I shuffle over to the opposite side of the bed, where Penny has left my bag of things, and pull out my nightclothes. “Should we expect soldiers at our door with a search warrant?”

Baz closes his eyes. Maybe because I’m pulling off my shirt, or maybe because of what I’ve said, I’m not sure. He’s pulling off his own things, albeit much slower, and he has many more layers, so there’s no chance I’ll see any skin before I finish and he blows out the candles.

Not that I want to see any skin.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about it.

“No.”

“Alright.” I pull my night shirt over my head. “That’s good.”

I can hardly believe he’s General Percy’s son. _He’s General Percy’s son_. _The_ General Percy. If there’s one thing even farther on the enemy’s side of the line than a British soldier, it’s that. 

And yet, for all of that, I get the feeling my knowing his identity is a bigger deal to him than it is to me.

Baz unbuttons his shirt and folds it up.

For the illegitimate son of a slave, he’s quite pale, as if he always wears clothes every moment of the day, all year around. Maybe he does; he’s always cold, and I find myself thinking now that I’d like to warm him up. If we didn’t have blankets here, I’d probably ask the neighbors for some. For him.

I decide not to think about why that is.

Or why I can’t stop looking at him.

It must be because I’ve never seen him bare like this; he’s slender, the shape of his ribs just the tiniest bit visible in the candlelight if I look hard—which I’m not—and I’ve never seen the entirety of his collarbone until now. 

It’s just… new. There’s nothing special about it, only that I’ve never seen him before.

Well, alright, there’s an elegance and a beauty to him that is… both new and special. Some classical sculptor could carve him, and he’d be the centerpiece, dark and tragic and the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, dark eyes in the dark, grey marble in brighter light, his hair brushing his bare shoulders and his hip bones flawless and the flat plane of his stomach—

But the only reason I can’t pull my eyes away is because this is so unusual; he always blows the candle before undressing. 

Baz’s eyes flick up, his expression bordering on nervous, and catches me looking. He freezes with his nightshirt in his hand. 

His eyes flick to the nightstand, where his candle flickers. “ _Oh._ ”

I look back at him.

I see him swallow hard before he blows out the candle.

I blow out mine. He’s too proper to go about with skin showing, I suppose. The bloody son of an Earl probably never had to share a dozen rooms with anyone else, let alone a room and a bed, until this year. Although I suppose someone undressed and dressed him, as they do in those rich houses. No wonder he hated coming here.

I almost feel bad for him. I wonder why he’s here instead of in his big, fancy house—I don’t think it’s fair he should have so much more wealth than others, of course, but to be thrown in with us couldn’t have been a tea party. 

Why in the world did he choose to stay in America instead of going home on the ships headed to Britain?

I’m in my nightclothes already, so I slip under the covers, on my side the way I always sleep. I try to get right up against the edge to give Baz as much room as possible—he sleeps on his back, straight and proper—so that we don’t end up touching under the covers.

It’s strange, lying in bed next to someone else. I never have before.

It’s so…

Intimate.

I suppose that’s why the practice is reserved for romantic partners, for the most part. 

Lying beside him, I can feel the proximity of him as if there’s an aura around him, compressed by the blankets into the sliver of air between us. I can feel the weight of his body dipping the mattress and I know without reaching out to check exactly how far my body is from his at every inch. 

And I know he’s tense. I can feel it, and I can hear it in the way he breathes, and the way he lies completely unmoving, as if he really is a beautiful marble statue, draped in sheets.

I don’t know why I have the sudden urge to speak. I can only see the dim silhouette of him in the thin light from the curtainless window—we sold the curtains. 

Mrs. Salisbury said if we were being kicked, we might as well take every last piece that was ours and sell it. Mr. Salisbury wasn’t here to throw a fit about it.

“So.” I’m on my side facing him anyway, and I can see the way his chest moves with his breath under the blankets. He’s heard me. “Tonight.”

His eyes open. I can’t see the color of them, but I know it by heart by now: in this dark, they’ll spark just a bit, like grey crystals, if the moonlight catches them. They’ll be dark as night otherwise. 

“If I told you before, you wouldn’t have trusted me.” He directs his whisper to the ceiling.

“And you think I do now?” I ask incredulously, trying to keep my voice down. “I’d trust you more now if you’d told me then than I do after finding out like that.”

“You don’t need to trust me now. You only had to trust me so we could free Shepard.” His whisper sounds as resigned as a whisper can sound. “I’ll leave tomorrow—I have somewhere I can go.”

I sit up, swinging myself over him a bit so I’m looking down at him—though of course it’s too dark to get a read on his expression. He goes even more tense. “What do you mean? Was it some sort of trap?”

He stares up at me. I can just see the shape of his features: his eyes, his nose, his lips. “No. No, Simon.”

“Lieutenant General Earl Hugh Percy’s son, huh?”

“You’ve known I’m the enemy this whole time. It isn’t new.” There’s something black in Baz’s voice, a yawning, gaping void, empty.

“Dunno if you _are_ the enemy,” I say honestly.

There’s a sharp breath, a quiet noise. I guess it’s strange timing to be warming up to Baz, but I… am. I think I might be.

“Back there, before the prison,” I say, because this hasn’t left my mind the whole time, not even when we finally found Shepard, not even when we were finally out, not even when we got home. “You said—you _promised_ you’d answer my questions.”

There’s a long, long silence. I don’t know why I trusted Baz to follow through, or to answer truthfully, but I did. Even as the silence drags on, I think I still do.

“So I did.” He says finally. I can tell he’s watching me. “Ask away.”

I consider. There’s so much I want to know, but so little of it fits into questions. I just want to know _about_ him. Everything. 

Because I don’t, for the life of me, understand a single thing.

“Er….” Why did you stay? Why did you want to free Shepard? Why are you, and Earl’s son, _here_? Why aren’t we all hung from the gallows yet? “Why…?”

Baz sighs, and I can feel it. “You can ask more than one question, you know. Perhaps start with one and move from there.”

“You should be dining on the backs of peasants or something.” I hear something, and the bed shifts with Baz’s sound. I think he’s _laughing_. But softly, genuinely. It makes me feel… strange. “Why aren’t you?”

There’s a moment, and then Baz murmurs, as if half to himself, “This is happening, isn’t it? Right now?”

“Can’t sleep,” I say. I’m so very tired, but we have until noon tomorrow to get out of the house. In any case, I couldn’t sleep with this many questions on my mind knowing that, for once, if I asked them, I’d receive an answer. “Can you?”

Baz rolls away from me, pulling open Penny’s drawer and rummaging around to find a box of matches. He lights the candle again, and sits up in bed, the faint smell of smoke swirling around us as he blows out the match. He’s got something else from Penny’s drawer too, but it looks like a bit of newspaper or something.

“No.” He’s flushed again, but I don’t see why he’d be overly warm. It’s snowing outside the window, that’s how cold it is. “I don’t think I could.”

“I’m in my night clothes,” Baz tells me. He is; I’ve never seen him in them before, except when he’s asleep and I’m awake, and I end up watching him. “And I’m already in the bed.”

“Yes,” I say, wondering if we should wait until we’ve gotten a good rest, and whether Baz is quite thinking straight. “I can see that.”

Baz’s expressions are visible, but no less easy to read even in the light. He looks small, though. The way his shoulders are pulled in and his hair down and vulnerable. “Just don’t throw me out on the street until tomorrow.”

“Christ, Baz.” I laugh, half a breath of it, quietly. “You’re dramatic.”

He frowns at me, then. At least I can read _that_ expression. “My father instructed me to be here.”

“ _Instructed you_? Like… a school assignment?”

“Forced,” Baz amends. “He arranged for me to take a ship to the colonies to stay with him, and then when I got here, he sent me off.”

“Bastard.”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “I thought you might take to him. You both despise me.”

“I don’t despise you,” I object hotly. And then I think, _I don’t?_

“You don’t?”

“Anyway.” I wave him off. “He forced himself on your mother.”

Baz flinches. “I—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mention it,” I rush to say. I want him to keep talking. “I didn’t think.”

I wait for _you never do,_ but though I’m sure he’s thinking it, he doesn’t say it.

There’s a moment.

Two.

“Right, well. He knew you were a Revolutionary close to Thomas, and he didn’t trust his soldiers to spy well enough…” 

I huff. “Soldiers aren’t dumb muscle.”

He’s looking at me. “I know that.” 

I’m too surprised to say anything, but he’s already talking again.

“Once I got as much information out of you as worth the trouble, he’d send me home.” He looks away from me, and then, as if that isn’t enough, he closes his eyes and drops his head and twists his hands tight in his lap. “And he’d hang you.”

Baz is still, save for the way his fingers twist as if compelled, white-knuckled, jerky, until he opens them shakily and drops his head into them.

I don’t know what to say. I feel like this is a very big thing… and yet somehow I don’t feel as if anything has changed a bit. Much like Baz’s name. 

“I can sleep on the couch,” Baz offers, his voice muffled from behind his hands. “You haven’t slept in a bed in a year anyway.”

“We sold the couch,” I say automatically, and then, “And I could handle it better than your posh arse, I reckon.” And then, “But I don’t see why you have to move.”

There’s a humorless laugh. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

I bite my lip. I want to pull Baz’s hands away, so he unfolds from the way he’s curled tight now. And then not let go of his hands. “I’m not dead yet.”

He doesn’t look like he’s going to go, but I’m strangely afraid that he will, so I put my arm around his shoulders. I like the feel of him, the shape of him. He goes tense at my touch, like he’s ready for a fight, but he doesn’t push me off. 

“I’ll never understand you.” His hands drop to his lap.

“The feeling is mutual,” I promise him. I’m running my hand up and down his other arm when I feel something up his sleeve. “What’s this?”

It’s a piece of paper. He lets me take it with no resistance. 

_Found… Tryannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Percy… September 20th, 1775._

I flip it over and I read it, and I pinch myself to check that I’ve not fallen asleep because it’s so late at night and am dreaming—no, this is real. 

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. And then my questions come out. “Why didn’t you want to go back? What did you do that put you on bad terms with Gen—with your father? And why would you help us with Shepard? Why didn’t you _turn this in?_ ”

Baz stares at me for so long, I half think he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. His expression is too conscious, though, too aching and scared and full of feelings I never see in daylight, and can never tell what they are. 

He shakes his head. 

“We haven’t finished the book,” he murmurs.

I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I say as much.

“We don’t know how it ends.” Baz’s eyes close, and his mouth curls up in a bitter smile. “Does the princess get to live a happy life with her true love even though they’re from such different lives, and she’s shunned him for so long? Simply by choosing once and for all which side to stand on and standing there come thick and thin? What a fairytale.”

“If not,” I say, because we always have this conversation: the practical versus the happy ending. It feels like something that belongs to us. “Then it will be a terribly unhappy ending.”

“Maybe she doesn’t deserve a happy ending. She doesn’t give a whit about her kingdom, she’s been so terrible to her lover—”

“She’s caring and witty and trying her best. It’s not an easy decision to leave her old life behind just like that. I think she deserves to be happy.” I don’t know why he never seems to understand this. “Why do you hate her so much?”

The air feels thick with something I can’t identify. I lean over Baz to put the letter back in Penny’s drawer—or, I suppose it isn’t really hers, since it came with the house. I’d burn it, but I don’t feel like going outside; I’ll burn it in the morning. I don’t want to go anywhere, right now. I want to be here, with Baz.

“I didn’t want you hung, Simon,” Baz says finally. “That’s why I didn’t turn you in. I don’t want to go back to England because there’s… well, there’s no lost love between my father and I. And America has grown on me.”

I can’t help a smile. “Really.”

“Really.” His eyes fix on my mouth, as if he’s never seen me smile before. I know he has. “And since I stole the information about Shepard, I don’t think he’s eager to have me back.”

I can’t believe he’s talking to me now, telling me these things now. He could’ve told them to me months ago, and I wouldn’t have hated him so much. Knowing that he didn’t want me hung, that he’d protect me—because that’s what he was doing.

Protecting me.

I think for a moment we could even have gotten on alright, maybe. He’s a bastard sometimes, but I think we could have worked. 

He never answered my questions before, and suddenly, now, when it’ll be over by midday tomorrow, he’s talking to me as if he hasn’t kept these carefully secret all year.

Or perhaps he’s doing it _because_ it’ll be over by midday tomorrow. 

I can’t help thinking about saying goodbye to him, his kiss on my hand. _I don’t want you to die_. All that time and only when I was leaving did he show he cared, although I was sure he was fucking with my head. 

Perhaps… God, Baz is so confusing.

“Why’d you help with Shepard?”

His eyes flick up from my mouth to my eyes. The candle is behind him, putting his eyes in shadow and leaving the grey irises black, black as if swallowed by his pupils. I still haven’t taken my arm from around him, though it’s slipped down around his waist now. 

“I have a conscience, Snow. I don’t want a seventeen year old to die in jail because of me anymore than the next man.” 

“Wasn’t your fault,” I mutter, “It was Davy’s.”

His eyes are pretty even now, and I can’t stop looking at them, and the pitch black of his hair loose around his shoulders when he shakes his head. “I did turn in David.” It looks soft. He usually has it tied. 

“Tonight…” I start, but I can’t find the words for it. “Tonight you…”

I want to thank him for freeing Shepard, for leaving behind his whole life to free Shepard. More than that, I want words for how brilliant he was, how good and capable. The way he swept in like he knew exactly how to bend each guard’s will just so, gentle as the whisper of a breeze. In and get Shepard and out, and so perfect.

“I already explained that I couldn’t tell you. You’d’ve left me there, and I was your key in.”

What? Oh, he’s still on about his name. “I don’t care about your name, not really,” I tell him, and I find that it’s true. “I just—thank you. I’m trying to thank you.”

Surprise flashes over Baz’s features. “Thank me?” His mouth twists wryly, and my eyes catch on his mouth. “Get to bed, Snow. You need some rest.”

“No—” He’s not listening to me. 

I want better words for the way I feel, so he can understand. Grateful? But not quite… impressed? But that’s not it either. 

“You’re just so…”

I’m not sure what it is, but there’s this _feeling_ —this _fire_ —

But he’s still not _listening_ to me. 

I kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I have had a chapter or two queued up, ready to go to keep this baby going. 
> 
> Not... um. Not anymore. *Hides.* That was my last one. 
> 
> From here on out, I guess you could say they're coming hot off the press. But don't you worry—I'm keeping my schedule.


	17. Run away with us for the summer, let's go upstate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes courage is hard to come by, even when you're only doing battle with yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, all you commenters!! My motivation to write made it too easy to get this chapter out this weekend. I was flying through this, because, for one, I didn't feel any pressure to finish "on time" which actually made it easy to do so, and two, your lovely comments gave me much enthusiasm about this story. Thank you again!

**BAZ**

Simon’s mouth is hot.

Simon’s mouth is hot, and his lips are soft, and his kiss is shockingly fierce—his kiss is _shocking_ , full stop.

I can’t think anything, _anything_. I’m on fire.

He kisses me like he’s still trying to argue with me.

I don’t mind.

I don’t _care_.

Simon Snow has a burning hand on my shoulder and warm fingers in my hair and he is _kissing me._

He tastes like the bit of gingerbread Penny broke off for him when he got back. His stubble feels like sand against my skin. His mouth—

His _mouth._

My mind doesn’t get any further than that. 

It is Simon’s hands and his body next to mine and his mouth and his hair and his stubble, it is the warmth of him shooting through me as if he’s a blazing fire and I’m nothing but newspaper.

I think: Simon Snow is kissing me.

I think: Simon Snow must have figured out I wanted this.

I think: Simon could get me jailed for gross indecency. Simon will use this to blackmail me. Simon _knows_ how I feel, what I want, how much I want it. 

I’m going to die for kissing Simon Snow.

And if he’s going to do me in with this kiss, I’ll make damn sure I get the most I can out of it—I’m not convinced I’m not getting a good deal.

I kiss him harder. 

I kiss him like I’m arguing back, and I kiss him like I’ve never wanted anything else but to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him... And I’m not sure I have. 

I push him back against the headboard. I _kiss_ him back against the headboard.

His mouth pulls away. “Baz,” he says, his voice scratchy and blank with surprise. “You kissed me.”

I can’t speak. There are no words in my brain. I’ve closed my eyes somewhere in there; I open them. 

Simon’s lips are reddened in the dim light, his blue eyes are wide, his mouth is open a little. His hands burn through my nightshirt, bracketing my ribs. 

“You kissed me first.” I feel like a child—I _sound_ like a child. If, for some reason, he wanted to kiss me even a little bit, that little bit is gone now; that’s no way to respond to anyone— _you kissed me first._ “Are you going to report me for sodomy?”

His brow wrinkles. “Are you joking? I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“I’m not _joking_.” How could I be joking? This feels like the most pivotal moment of my life, and I’m already messing it up—heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not—planning to do anything to hurt you, you idiot. Or Shepard. I’m not—what do you want me to do?”

Snow just frowns at me, looking so confused it’s almost comical. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“What? What do you _mean?_ Why did you kiss me?” I haven’t let go of him; I’m clutching his shoulders as if to shake the answer out of him. “Did you really think I was going to get you arrested or—is it just _revenge?_ Or—”

“Baz,” Snow cuts me off, his eyebrows raising. I flush deeper; I feel foolish and hysterical and it’s _his fault_. He’s not making any sense. “Stop.” 

I shut up. The urge to talk bubbles up in me and I fight it down. It bubbles up again. Is he going to _say_ something? The cold winter air is leaching in through my nightshirt, save for the place Snow is touching me. I’m sitting on his legs. 

Snow is looking at me intently with his blue, blue eyes, his skin flushed. He takes his hands from my waist and pulls my hands off of his shoulders gently. So gently. 

“You think I kissed you to _blackmail_ you?” He makes it sound so stupid. Which means… that’s probably not why he kissed me. He’s not a good enough actor to pretend it’s ridiculous if it’s exactly what he’s doing. So it’s not what he’s doing.

What in the _world?_

Then _why—_

“No,” I say. “No, of course not, I just thought—” But nothing else comes to mind. Except for the one thing… I swallow the tiny spark of hope before it can catch fire. I douse it. I drown it. It’s gone. (There’s still that whisper in my head, _what if he really… what if he wanted…_ )

Snow looks completely unconvinced, and I want the floor to swallow me whole—except I also want to know. I want to know even more than I want to disappear. 

“How would that work?”

“I….”

“How would I blackmail _you_ with sodomy charges if I’m the one who kissed you?” When he puts it like that, you could almost make it work the _other_ way around, but he seems unconcerned. 

He just holds my hands and looks at me like he just asked a normal question and is waiting for a normal answer.

Is he not going insane? I’m going mad. My heart waffles between wild racing and cold dread, and I barely feel as if I can think. And he looks perfectly natural. 

“I don’t _know_ ,” I burst out finally. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Simon’s hands are warm. “Then why’d you kiss me back?”

“Are you _fucking kidding?_ ” 

Nothing makes sense. 

_Nothing makes sense._

“You know why I kissed you back. You _know why_.” I pull my hands from his. 

He kissed me to show me he knows. He kissed me to threaten me.

What—and now he’s going to twist it like he has no idea? 

_Does he have no idea?_

“Baz,” he says, a little alarmed now, “Calm down. I don’t—I’m sorry for kissing you, I guess. You’re shaking.”

“You’re sorry for kissing me,” I repeat flatly. “You’re sorry for kissing me.”

Snow looks a little concerned. For _me_. “I wasn’t even thinking. I can sleep on the floor, or—” He breaks off. He’s going nowhere while I’m still sitting on his legs. “Look, there’s no way I’m reporting you for sexual indecency or whatever it is you’re afraid of. It wouldn’t even work. I kissed you first.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Yeah, you did.” _What is happening?_ “Why did you?”

Snow frowns, running a hand through his hair, as if I’ve just asked him the meaning of life or something equally subjective. “I don’t know.”

Jesus Christ. 

He bites his lip. “You weren’t listening to what I was saying.”

“You did it because—”

“I was trying to say _thank you._ ”

I’m dreaming. And even then, it’s the most fantastical dream I’ve ever had. “You did it to say _thank you?_ ”

“Baz—” 

“In what world—In what world, Simon Snow, does your brain live in that kissing someone _like that_ is _thanking_ someone—”

“ _Baz_ —”

“—What have you never felt thankful for Penny in your life? Poor Mrs. Salisbury, I suppose—”

Snow slaps his hand over my mouth, more forceful than I expected. The surprise shuts me up better than the hand does. “You’ll wake the whole city. Will you listen to me?”

“If I don’t, will you kiss me again?” I shoot back, shoving his hand off my mouth.

He sighs loudly, eyeing me with no small amount of dislike. He’d never want to kiss me, and here is the case in point. “Give me two minutes without interruption.”

“Should I get my pocket watch?”

He’s upset. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to notice, but he’s upset. His cheeks are flushed darkly, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration, and he’s taking deep breaths as if to unwind a knot of anger. 

I want to wind him up more. “Unless you want me to count the seconds and you can just talk over me.”

It’s easier than trying to help.

“Get off,” he says lowly. “Get off.”

“What, you don’t want this?” I laugh unkindly. It’s a relief that I’m still able to. “You could have fooled me.”

He shoves me off. 

He puts both hands on my chest and he shoves me backward with such force it shocks the air out of me—clearly, I mismeasured how angry he is. It doesn’t escape my notice that he pushes me back onto the bed when pushing me off the bed entirely would have been easier. 

This way my fall is soft.

It makes my heart ache. I’m _pathetic._

Simon slides off the bed and lights the candle at his bedside without looking at me, and I sit up to watch him. My candle is still burning. 

He looks down at me, defiant, eyes ablaze. “I think I do want this,” he says. “With you. Call me mad, but I do.”

I—call him mad? 

_I do want this. With you._

He’s madder than the king of England. 

_You stupid soldier,_ I say. _I love you._ But what comes out is, “Where are you going?”

He has picked up the candle, and he’s moving towards the door. “Sleeping on the floor,” he says. “Away from you.”

 _Stay_ , I say. _Please._ I know one thing in this moment, one thing only: I can’t let him walk away. I _can’t_. If there’s the tiniest chance he means it, I can’t. And the rest of me is numb, has been frantically numb since the kiss, but somewhere in there, I think there might be a chance. 

A tiny, tiny chance.

But a chance.

“I’ll read to you,” is what comes out of my mouth. _Stay. I love you. Please._

He gives me this look that breaks my heart. _Exhausted._ Too tired to even try to figure me out anymore. “We should sleep.”

 _I’m sorry. I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know what to do._ I say, “I’ll _read to you_.” As if the emphasis changes the words. 

He’s tried to figure me out all year. _All year._ He can’t give up now. He can’t stop now. He has to figure out how I feel and kiss me silly and hold me with his warm hands—he said he _wants to_. 

“Simon.” I’m begging now, fumbling for the book on the nightstand. “We should finish the book.” Is it begging if they can’t tell you’re begging?

Snow joins me on the bed and slips under the covers immediately, pulling them into him. As if he’s cold. It throws me for a moment; it steals my breath. A moment ago he was five feet away; now he’s only half of one.

“Well? Read.”

I read to him. There isn’t much left.

The princess chose her poor hero boy and seemed on course for a happy ending after making up her mind and there are no plot twists after that. There’s no more jail or arguments, there’s no more left unsaid, there’s no more Earl’s son, none of it.

The hero and the princess live happily ever after.

_The end._

“I told you so,” Snow mutters. 

I hate him. “It felt hollow.” 

“Why?” Snow is drifting off, his eyes fluttering shut and his words soft around the edges, but I can hear him. I can hear him fine. “Because you’re not going to get your happy ending?”

I _hate_ him. “No. _No._ ”

But he has already fallen asleep by the time I’ve found my voice.

It must be because I fell asleep so late, but Simon’s up before I am, shaking me none-too-gently. 

“Off,” I mutter, and he leaves me, shoving the drapes open. 

They’re going today. And so am I—I’m going to stay with my Aunt Fiona, closer to here than I might like because it heightens the probability of my running into Snow when I’m about in the city, but I’ll take it. I’ll see him _less_ , at least. 

The more he’s out of my life, the better.

Simon Snow and his reddish-brown hair, curls a mess, the way they seem to glow against the light of daybreak streaming through the window—yes. He needs to go.

“It’s time to go.” Snow touches the edge of the bed as if he might reach for me, but he doesn’t. “We’re all ready, and you have to leave, too. We’re to be out by—”

“Eleven,” I finish. “I know.”

“I think we should talk about it,” he says, looking at me sideways.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

We change. We put our clothes away in bags, packing up every last item. I take the letter from Snow’s General Thomas and put it in my pocket—one last thing to remember him by. As if I’ll need any help. I make it through with my heart crumbling to dust in my chest, falling to pieces, and without making a sound. Usually, I’m up and changed, but it doesn’t matter today, since he isn’t looking at me at all, nothing like last night.

Oh, help.

Last night.

He’s not glaring at me or insulting me, or watching me suspiciously—he’s almost quiet, not quite looking at me, moving carefully. “Well.”

Penny shouts something from outside, followed by a peal of laughter that must be Shepard’s, because it’s not Lucy’s, and it’s not Penny’s. And Snow’s right here.

“I should go,” Snow says. His eyes finally fix on me, rather… defeated. “I have to go.”

“Of course.”

“ _Baz._ Come on.”

 _Simon_ , I think, looking at him. His stubby eyelashes and his blue eyes. The mole on his neck, the ones on his cheek, the one below his eye. I’ve daydreamed about kissing them more times than I can count. I’ve daydreamed about running my hands through his riotous curls, about the press of his calloused hands against my skin. 

About the heat of his mouth on mine. 

_Simon Snow._

I got one dream, and that’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for, more than I’d ever expected. I save him in my mind, just like this.

It will be enough.

“Are you going to go? Waiting for something?”

He goes, but by the time he does, I have nothing left to stall my hands with, and he knows it; I follow him out.

We both hesitate at the doorway. Penny and Shepard are chattering outside, and Lucy will be waiting. This is the last time we’ll ever be alone together. 

“What the hell happened last night?” he whispers. 

I can’t do this. I can’t look at him, and know what he wants and know what I want—he’s looking me in the eye, and now he’s looking at my mouth—

_He’s looking at mouth and I’m not doing anything I’m not—_

I should just tell him. I’m never going to see him again, I should just _tell him_. I open my mouth—

“Simon! Basilton!” Lucy spots us. “News! I have good news!”

Simon leaves me behind. 

“Listen,” Lucy orders, her eyes sparkling, unfolding a crisp letter as we gather around obediently, “Listen to this— _I hate to hear of your predicament and I am desperately sorry for the incident that occurred with Mr. Salisbury. I should like you to know, my dear friend, that if it is not too presumptuous, I would love nothing more than to open my door to you and your family. I beg of you do not view it as a charity, for you of course can provide for yourself and even pay board, but as for the matter of holding property, I can only imagine it would be a more favorable circumstance to live in one place with me than to have to leap from inn to inn all together. Please consider this the return of my debt to you,_

_“Your friend,_

_“Ebeneza Petty.”_

This is a joke of the cruelest kind. 

_Ebeneza Petty._

Fiona’s wife. 

_Fiona’s wife._

“You’re kidding,” I blurt out, at the same time as Penny cheers and Simon asks, “What debt?” and then turns to me, eyes flashing. “Oh come on, don’t sound too happy for us, now.”

“That’s not—” I start.

“Please, boys.” Lucy interrupts sharply. “My favor to her is hers to tell, not mine. And Basilton, I hope you don’t mind. I thought you knew.”

“Knew _what?_ ” Snow looks between us, back and forth, kicking a rock by the side of the road and sending up dust. “What is it?”

Lucy hesitates, but Penny’s leaning in curiously too, and even Shepard has perked up a bit, though he looks tired on his one leg, the other wrapped tightly in a cast. “Mrs. Petty is married to Basilton’s Aunt, Fiona Pitch. They’re taking in all of us.”

Penny frowns. “But they’re both women. Who’s holding the property? And how did they get married?”

“That’s—a question for them,” Lucy answers, with some difficulty. “But don’t ask it.”

I know why; Ebb explained it to me when I visited. Ebb has a man’s body. Or was born as a man. You wouldn’t be able to tell looking at her. However you like to say it—and of course, she is recognized as one under the law, so it’s a brilliantly kept secret. 

Mrs. Salisbury helped orchestrate it, years ago; Fiona mentioned it offhandedly when I went to visit. If I was meant to see this coming, she might have hinted it a bit harder.

I can practically feel the tension rolling off of Snow in waves. “I can’t,” he says. “Not—we’re not staying with Baz.”

“Flattered,” I murmur, but I can’t get anything more than that out. My heart is breaking for him; he sounds so panicked, so _pained_. 

Lucy frowns, tucking the letter back into the folds of her dress. “We’re not turning down this extremely generous chance because you two can’t get along.”

And that’s that. 

We walk up the lanes in silence until finally Penny falls back and begins interrogating Snow about why he’s angry. And _God_ , he’s angry. He scowls the whole way, kicking up dirt as we make our way through the noisy streets, yanking his bag higher up on his shoulder even when there’s no danger of it falling off, glaring resentfully at the crowds of people we push through. 

I pick up my step; I don’t want to hear.

Lucy’s the one who knocks on the dark wooden door, peering up at the looming house. 

Penny whispers behind me to Snow. “It _is_ this house, look, see the goats? And the tree right in the middle—”

“I see,” Snow cuts her off shortly. 

Ebb opens the door for us, wearing her usual dress with the huge, deep-pocketed apron as she always does, her hair escaping her bun. 

She takes one look at Lucy and bursts into tears. “Come in!” She dabs at her face, but more tears just rush in to take their place. “Come—” Hiccup. “Come—In—Oh Lucy. I’m so happy you’re here—”

She steps out and throws her arms around Lucy, who has set down her bag and even seems a little teary-eyed herself.

I walk right in.

The whole house is in much better shape inside than it was outside. The walls are covered in tasteful wallpaper and the windows light the space well: the expensive chairs and couches, long tables and towering cabinets full of dishes and cookware, sheets and pillowcases, bandages, whatever you like. I’ve barely seen the beginning of this house, and it already feels a touch like the best parts of what I miss from England. 

I don’t pay it much mind; I saw a little of it on my first visit, and exploring is not the first thing on my mind.

I have an aunt to track down.

“I told you we always have someone or other staying.” Fiona shrugs at me, breathing tobacco smoke out into the room. The windows aren’t even open. I cough. “With a house this big and so many revolutionaries without money enough to pay for board.” She leans back and puts her boots on the shining, well-cleaned table, getting mud on it, and tips back her chair.

“But _him_ , he’s—” My throat closes. He’s everything to me. I can’t be around him. A year was enough. Please, a year was enough. “He’s…”

Fiona’s eyebrows jump up. Her hair is down, long and completely untied. If she were out in the street, she’d get stared at, but I’m not sure she minds. More than that, I’m not sure she even _goes out_ that often, other than out with the goats on occasion. “That’s rather unfortunate for you, then. I don’t suppose he has the same proclivities?”

“ _Fiona._ ” He does. He _does._ And he wants _me._ He said so. _With you_ , he said.“That’s not the point.” 

Fiona sticks out a foot and drags a nearby chair towards me crookedly, unbothered by the way it screeches against the floor. “Well, it sounds like I’m in for a story, then. Sit, sit.”

“There’s no story,” I say. I stay standing. It’s true. There isn’t one. It’s just me. 

“Well, I assume he likes men.” She breathes out more tobacco smoke. “And so he must like you.”

“That’s quite the assumption.” 

“Well?”

“Christ.”

“That means yes, I presume.” She stares at me, and, after a moment of silence, waves her hand impatiently, sending more tobacco smoke my way. I cough again. She’s going to kill me at this rate. “So? What’s the problem?”

“I can’t—you can’t understand what it is to—to—he’s a—man—you have it easy, with this huge place. Practically handing out money to any revolutionary that comes by, living with Ebeneza, who is a man on paper—”

Fiona’s eyes darken, her voice pitches low, a hint of anger creeping into her voice. “I am married to a woman with the body of a man. The world hates me because I love the wrong sex. The world hates her for the same reason, _and_ because she _is_ the wrong sex.” 

She pulls her feet off the table and leans forward, letting her chair fall back down. I hold the back of my chair tight; I think it’s the only thing holding me up. She’s a terror.

“I left England and my family and their money and their privilege _just_ like you did. I _love_ her.” She jabs her finger at me. “Tell me you’re afraid. Tell me he’s in love with someone else. Tell me _he’s_ afraid. Tell me you’re not ready, or you’re not sure, or you’ve chosen your family against your heart. _Don’t_ tell me I don’t understand and don’t _ever_ try to tell me I have it easy.”

There’s a knock on the doorframe. We both look.

It’s Ebb, beaming, her eyes and the tip of her nose still red. “I’m so sorry to interrupt—Lucy would like to greet you…”

I can see it. The way Fiona softens when she looks at Ebb, her anger draining away in an instant, a gentleness there that I’ve never seen from her before. 

Fiona gets up and pulls Ebb close. “Let me greet you first…”

I leave the room. The next one is huge and empty. 

I’m alone. 

It’s true. Fiona had everything I had, and she left that behind. She’s married to Ebb, and she’s _so happy_ , and not because it was easy for her to find happiness—it was so hard for her. She never had good choices, but she somehow made it work. 

I’ve had nothing _but_ good choices. Home, full of pleasure and plenty, books, lessons, huge, sprawling grounds.

Or here, with Simon. Simon who _wants me back_. Simon, who is a choice I could make. I don’t even _like_ Boston that much. How did I choose Boston and not Simon?

Fiona had so many obstacles… and I suppose I did too but they’re gone now. There’s nothing between me and choosing Simon. So… why…?

It’s another living room, this one full of even more couches, armchairs. I run my fingers along the seams.

Fiona had been in the middle of taking my head off, and she softened like butter in the sun when Ebb stepped into the room. Genuinely. She loves Ebb, anyone can see it.

Why is it that I _sharpen_ the minute Snow looks my way?

What the hell am I _doing?_

I stop short. There’s another doorway here, one that leads back in the direction of the front door.

Snow’s peering in, looking at me.

The hems of his pants are dirty from the walk over, and he isn’t wearing a coat, because he never gets cold; all he has is another of his white shirts and suspenders, a heavy case of his things in one hand. He looks like a poor orphan hero. 

“We get different rooms this time around,” he tells me after a beat. “Unless you want to share. I’d like—you _know_ I’d like to.”

“Oh.” I can see his collarbone. Part of it, at least. I can see his muscles, and the hair on his arm, and the way his fingers tap ceaselessly on the doorframe between us. “You can choose first.”

His forehead creases. “Alright.” 

We look at each other. 

I look away first.

There’s a room with a faded-looking circle of stars painted on the door, a big bed, a squat wardrobe painted black, and a bright-looking window with yellow curtains opening onto the field in the back where the goats graze. 

The room left of it has a white door, a smaller bed, a window that overlooks the houses on the side of the house, and black curtains. 

The room to the right has a big bed, a tall, white wardrobe and a small closet, a bedside table, and a little bookshelf in the corner. 

Penny claims that one immediately.

The one to the right of Penny’s is probably the best room: with a window opening onto the field and a good number of lamps and surfaces to place them. It has a bookshelf, too. 

Snow chooses the first one, the one with the circle stars on the door. I suspect it’s _because_ of the circle of stars. Shepard asks me if he can take the better room—the one with the big bed, nicer window, wardrobe, bookshelf, and books. 

I let him.

I take the one with the white door. The smaller bed. The one next to Simon’s. 

Simon doesn’t talk much during supper. He doesn’t _eat_ much. 

Penny and Lucy look concerned, and I can tell Penny’s trying, again, to figure me out, but she keeps getting distracted by Shepard.

“Yes ma’am,” he’s saying to Ebb. “Sure have had your cheese—Simon’s half in love with your cheese. He brings it to training all the time, and he’s kind enough to share. Do those goats really give you enough?”

It seems like he can carry on a conversation about nearly anything. It’s a good thing he does; Simon and I aren’t arguing the way we usually do, and there’s nothing else to fill the silence with, especially with Fiona remaining stubbornly out of it every time someone tries to rope her into the conversation. She’s watching me and Simon, her eyes sharp. She even sat me across from him.

“Training for what?” Ebb looks at Shepard, doe-eyed and still sniffling. Her eyes are big and sad, and Shepard seems to be attempting to cheer her up, unaware that she’s just _like_ that. Or perhaps _he’s_ just like that. I can’t tell.

“To fight for the revolution,” Shepard answers easily. “You didn’t think I was just the messenger, did you?”

Lucy startles a little at his words. “To fight, too?”

Ebb wipes her eyes. “So many young people are willing to die. It makes you worry, sometimes.”

God, it does. I can’t help glancing at Simon, as if to assure myself he’s still alive. Of course, he is. He’s alive and well and putting more butter on his bread, though he’s hardly taken a bite, and my heart swells dangerously in my chest. 

He looks up.

“I’m not afraid to say it here; it’s a patriotic house,” Shepard is saying to Lucy. “What with everything they do for revolutionaries. And as for your British son of a—an Earl there, Simon trusts him, and I trust Simon.”

He’s still looking at me. Simon, that is.

My heart won’t stop pulsing in my chest, expanding, constricting, expanding. I wonder if he does trust me. I wonder if he still wants this with me.

After last night and today, I wouldn't be surprised if he threw me out of his heart completely. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was such a coward, I didn’t even try to fight my way back in.

I wonder if I have it in me to try—I have tried! I did try! But it’s so much easier to make backward progress than forward. It is a war of miserable odds, of desperately unequal forces, and I’ve joined the force too late.

Have I joined the force too late? Simon once said the Revolution is alive for as long as even one man is willing to fight. Am I willing to fight? 

The analogy is moot—love isn’t a war, and Simon is a hopeless optimist, and this is not a revolution, it is one stupid boy in love with a patriot.

When the conversation moves on, I barely notice it.

When we finish supper, I help do the dishes and unpack a few items that belong to all of us, that will be with us in this household for as long as the Salisburys are here. Glasses at the top, plates stacked in the middle, bowls in the bottom shelves, clinking into place.

When we say goodnight, I’m the last one to go up the stairs. Snow is in his room and I am in mine, and I don’t want to face the wall between us, not yet. 

When I go up, he’s rustling around in his room with the stars on the door. I stand there, staring at the stars.

It takes me the better half of five minutes to put my hand on the knob. I take my hand back quickly. My breath is coming fast, and my hands are cold and tingly, clammy with sweat. 

_It’s just a doorknob._ Whatever is on the other side of the door doesn’t matter until the door is open. _Just open the door._

I grab the doorknob again, my hand shaking enough that it rattles. Well, now I have no choice but to open the door, or Snow will come and do it. 

I open the door.

It’s a lot lighter than I expected it to be; I push it a little too hard, and it swings open fast so that I lose hold of it and have to grab at it quickly to close it behind me. A little too hard. It slams shut.

Simon whirls around.

He’s beautiful—he’s always beautiful but he’s especially beautiful right now, in the warm, flickering light of the candles by his bed and the way his eyes are shadowed by his curls, tumbling down over his forehead. He’s _so_ beautiful.

And he’s shirtless.

And by that, I mean his shirt is _off_. His chest is _bare_. 

This was not part of the plan. I didn’t have a plan, but this was not part of it—if I knew I wouldn’t have come, I would know better than to have even tried, I—

“This isn’t your room.” Simon pulls his hands away from his belt—oh _God,_ he was about to take his trousers off, I should have knocked, but knocking is so much more terrifying—

“I know,” I croak. I swallow hard. He’s looking at me with his mouth half open and his eyes burning into me, and his shirt off, and I think my knees are going to give out. I lean back against the closed door for support. I press my palms against the cool wood behind me.

It doesn’t help.

“Snow,” I say. I drag in another breath. “Simon.”

Simon pushes a hand through his hair. I want to do the same. I want to do it _now_. I want _so much_. I love him. I’m in love with him. 

_Simon._

He comes closer, and I want to back away, but I’m already pressed against the door, my heart beating so quickly and loudly I can’t hear myself think. 

He’s close enough that I could touch him, if I reached for him, close enough that I can almost _feel_ him speak when he whispers, “What do you _want_?”

I think I’m shaking, but I manage to reach for him. “A happy ending.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see Baz as having rules puts the world into: what can and can't be, what he can and can't have, and struggling to adapt when suddenly these outlines he's created are broken—the world isn't following the rules anymore. (Am I projecting? Maybe.) 
> 
> Let me know what you think about it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!


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